


Fighting Fire

by Boyvoids



Series: Fighting Fire [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental magic fucks shit up, Angst, Anxiety, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Harry Potter Has a Pet Snake, Harry learns to trust people, Horcruxes, Hurt/Comfort, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Illness, Mentor Severus Snape, Multi, No character bashing, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Harry Potter, Trans Luna Lovegood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 06:47:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19824718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boyvoids/pseuds/Boyvoids
Summary: After discovering his connection to Voldemort, being outed as trans to the entire school, and surviving the fire that burnt down the Dursley’s house, all Harry wants to do is spend a quiet summer at the Hog’s Head with Aberforth before returning to Hogwarts for his fourth year. Unfortunately, … best laid plans, and all that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I'm in the process of re-vamping this fic because (to be honest) I was digging myself into a hole with some of the plotlines. So if you've read this before 5/6/2020, things will look a bit different.   
> Thanks for hanging in there!

_Harry,_

How are you? Last I saw you, you were in a bit of a rough spot (I’m not sure if you even knew I was there). I wish I could’ve come with and helped you but, you know. I’ve got a reputation that makes that a bit dangerous for the both of us. I’m glad someone else was able to help you, though: I’m sorry I ever doubted you about him. I should’ve known better than to not believe you! You’re the smartest godson I’ve ever had.

I met up with my favorite wolf, if you know who I mean. He’s staying with me this summer. We’re in the wind, somewhere quiet and safe, and hopefully after a few months I’ll be a bit more… stable, I guess is the best word for it. I’ve got twelve years to re-coop from, but some fresh air and space to run around in will do me a world of good.

I hope you’re somewhere safe and quiet, too. I’m afraid I don’t know much more than you about all that’s happening, but I’m glad you never have to go back to that house again.

Write soon, Harry.

Grim

PS It’s probably best not to say anything too revealing; anyone could be watching.

↠

_Potter—_

I will arrive for your lesson this Sunday at seven. Tell Aberforth not to attempt to cook anything; how that man runs a pub I may never know. I will bring takeaway.

I expect you to be current with your studies, particularly on horcruxes and accidental magic. We will resume your practice with occlumency shields—if you have not been clearing your mind each night, I will know.

McGonagall and Pomfrey insist that I send you their best wishes. I am certain a letter to either of them would be the highlight of their respective summers.

Spare me the nuisance of a response; I will see you in a short few days.

—Snape

↠

_Dear Harry,_

I hope your summer is going well! Mum and dad surprised me with a trip to France. It’s so interesting—we wear these translator things around our necks, so we can understand and speak any language fluently!

It was good to see you right before school ended, though of course we were all a bit frazzled with exams. I’m sorry again that Ron didn’t come. He really is so thickheaded sometimes!

I hope it’s okay, but I talked with my mum about trans people. I didn’t mention you, of course—I just said I knew someone and was curious. She got me some muggle books and resources that I’ve been looking over. I will send some your way if you like—there are lots of really fascinating stories! I don’t know how transitioning works in the wizarding world, but maybe parts of it are similar to muggle practices?

I still can’t remember much, and I’m sorry. But I’ve been writing with Ginny and Luna and when they tell me stories, it’s almost like I’ve remembered them. If it is an amnesia charm or something, I don’t think it’s very strong. If it’s okay, and you still want to be my friend, then I think the best option is for us to just keep writing and then maybe next term we can hang out together again? I’ve heard that sometimes the best thing is to just act as if nothing has changed, to pretend that the memories are still there, and then they’ll return.

We’re about to visit this really old library with all sorts of manuscripts and stuff. I’m so excited!

Lots of love,

Hermione Jean Granger

↠

_My Harry,_

I am growing a garden at home this summer and all my vegetables are growing beautifully! I like to watch the rabbits visit and eat the carrots and cabbage. It’s like having little friends who visit each day, and I don’t even like the taste of vegetables all that much, so it works out well, though father thinks it’s silly.

Father and I are coming north in the next few weeks; perhaps we can reunite in Hogsmeade? I’ve never actually been there before, as its only now my third year, so maybe you can give us a tour. I would love for you to meet him; he’s not so much fun as I am, but he is kind and also sometimes lonely.

Ginny and I see each other all the time now, did you know we live so close together? Just a few hills apart. I don’t know how much her mum likes me, she always watches us so funnily. I wonder why.

Tell the goats hello for me,

Your Luna

↠

_Dear Harry,_

In retrospect, I wish dearly this were not my first true attempt to talk to you. Our mutual hairy friend has told me a lot about you and I truly wish I had spent last year getting to know you. If you will give me a second chance, I will be your professor next year, as well. I would like very much to be your friend, as everything our friend—I hear you call him Grim—has told me about you is wonderful.

James and Lily were my dearest friends, Harry, and I am appalled that I did not see you for who you were this past year. I don’t know what happened—Grim informs me this experience isn’t isolated to me, but still I am wracked with guilt. Ordinarily, I like to consider myself quite a good friend. Now, however, I know that I have not been.

Grim and I are spending the summer away from the community as it’s been quite some time since we’ve seen each other. It will be healthy for the both of us to rest and reunite; however, if you and your guardian—I’m quite fond of Aberforth, do tell him hello—are amenable, I would like to visit sometime this summer. Perhaps I can bring along our favorite dog, though it may be dangerous.

Again, I’m truly sorry I did not reach out before. Professor Snape even criticized my absence and entreated me to talk to you. I don’t know why I did not listen.

With respect and sincerity,

Remus Lupin

PS I’ve included some old photos I have of you and your parents. We spent your first Christmas together, though I’m sure you wouldn’t remember that. You look so much like the both of them, and I know they’re proud of you.

↠

_Harry—_

I heard a rumor you were back for the last few days of term. Yet you didn’t speak to me? I am, quite frankly, offended, and likely won’t ever talk to you again unless you provide a magnificent apology and concede that I’m the better wizard/chess-player/seeker/etc.

My mother and father returned before exams ended and I did have a home to return to, thank you so much for your concern. I appreciate all the wonderfully heartfelt letters you sent; after all, no true friend would ever just send _one_ for months and months.

They brought with them a… let’s call it a new pet, shall we? It makes the manor not very fun to live in at all. I am not sure what options I have to rid myself of it, however. Have you had any more fun fainting spells I should know about?

Is there some place we could meet this summer? I need to talk to you face to face.

—Draco

↠

_Hey Harry,_

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say, but Ginny and Hermione keep nagging me. Girls, right?

Before you ask, I don’t remember anything. Not a thing. Maybe something about a giant game of chess but I’m pretty sure that’s a dream I had.

But I guess why I’m really writing is to say sorry for running my mouth last term. It wasn’t a nice thing to do and I reckon you probably weren’t very happy about it. If someone did something like that to me, I would hate them forever. But I hope you don’t. Hate me, that is. Because the way Ginny and Hermione talk about you makes it seem like you’re a cool enough guy (and I know you’re a guy now, Charlie helped me figure it out). Anyway. I’m not good at writing letters, you probably know that, but I hope you don’t hate me forever.

I always thought you were really good at Quidditch and stuff. And you seem pretty smart as long as Hermione’s not in the room. And I guess I’ve always been jealous of you a little bit because you’re so famous and popular, but Ginny told me you hate all that stuff which I can understand. I don’t like being judged because of my brothers and you don’t like being judged because of what you did when you were a baby. So we’re the same a little bit.

Dad got free tickets to the World Cup this summer, it’s going to be wicked. Do you want to come along? It’s okay if you hate me or something but I thought it’d be a good idea to hang out. (Okay, Charlie suggested it. He’s loads better at this sort of stuff than I am. Have you met Bill and Charlie?)

Hope you’re well,

Ron

↠

The air was wet to the touch, dense and humid as the sky crowded itself with darkness. There was a claustrophobic touch to the world, a tightness that wrapped around the horizon and held the world tight. The storm was coming soon, and it was bound to be a big one.

Harry grinned. Perfect; he hadn’t wanted to water the garden today anyway.

“Aberforth,” he called through the back door. “Merry and Pippin are in their shed! I’ll set the hens away in a moment!”

“See you do, son,” came the thick and crackling voice Harry had become familiar with over the last few months. Aberforth was still manning the bar—which this early in the afternoon was relatively quiet—but had no qualms about shouting loud enough for the whole village to hear. It was their main method of conversation these days, as Harry had taken to spending any second he could outside with the animals.

Harry spared one last glance towards Merry and Pippin, who were happily munching on the hay he had forked over for them. Then he made his way towards where most of the hens were: by the garden, trying to nab as much lettuce as they could before he caught them. As he neared, their clucks grew louder and more boisterous until finally he ran at them while laughing and waving his arms—they scattered in every direction, legs kicking up wildly. Pulling some kale and carrot tops, he used them to coax his girls back together and towards the henhouse.

“C’mon, Trudy,” he cooed to the youngest of the chickens, who was always most reluctant to enter the small shelter. She was the most reckless of the brood and also Harry’s favorite—he’d had to chase her through the streets more than once to the humor of the rest of the village. She pecked at his feet and then waddled her way in, clucking as he latched the door behind her. “You’ll be much happier in there once the rain hits, trust me,” he said, but she just stared at him grumpily.

Animals safely under cover, Harry surveyed the small lot behind the Hog’s Head. It had come a long way in the last two months, thanks to some joint effort from Harry, Aberforth, Hagrid, and Professor Sprout, who they’d happened to run into one morning and asked for advice. Hagrid had given them some great advice on animal warding and fencing materials, and Sprout helped them set up proper irrigation for their garden and gave them some starter heirloom seeds from her own collection. Aberforth and Harry repaid them with eggs from the hens, fresh vegetables, and the occasional weekend get-together with tea and jam sandwiches.

It was, by far, the best summer Harry had ever had in his life.

For the first time, he was free. Aberforth didn’t care what he did, so long as he was safe and didn’t run away for more than a day. As old as he was, the man was still relatively spry—though he often used aching joints as an excuse to sit out on any work he didn’t want to do.

One special day, when a gorgeous breeze lifted the town’s spirits and the air was fresh and light, Aberforth hadn’t bothered to open the pub, instead telling Harry to pack a bag and put on his best hiking shoes. They’d trekked through the forest for a day, Aberforth pointing out various animal tracks and Harry using his identification book Sprout had given him to forage for edible plants. Mid-afternoon, they reached a clear spring with large sloping slabs of stone hanging over one side, perfect for leaping off of. Harry had never learned to swim, but after some bribes from Aberforth—pizza from his favorite pizzeria and a trip to a Muggle farmer’s market in a neighboring village—he mustered the courage to wade in and, eventually, even jump from the highest ledge. He’d been fine until he went underwater, at which point he panicked and began splashing and kicking furiously to reach the surface. Aberforth had pulled him upright and burst out laughing at the expression on Harry’s face once he realized he could stand with his head out of the water. Lungs still burning, Harry had splashed the old man in the face and darted to the bank before he could retaliate, then climbed the rocks to jump again.

They camped by the pond that night, Aberforth teaching Harry how to cast an open-air tent-like barrier—mainly so no mosquitos or other insects got into their sleeping bags. The night under the stars had been near perfect for Harry, who fell asleep to the lull of crickets and the sway of trees overhead. His spirits were dampened by a nightmare about the Dursleys, whose whereabouts he still didn’t know, but fresh eggs and hash over the fire the next morning made up for it.

Things weren’t all sunshine in the Hog’s Head house. Harry’s panic attacks were still semi-regular and Aberforth wasn’t one for gentle coaxing and care; it wasn’t that he didn’t want to help, but the man simply didn’t know how, and Harry couldn’t fault him for it. His nightmares, too, were frequent, but he didn’t quite feel comfortable talking to his guardian— _temporary_ guardian, he reminded himself—about them yet.

There’d been no sign of Voldemort since the fire at Number Four, but it was clear something was different about Harry’s mind. He had regular memory lapses, where one day he could remember something but the next he couldn’t. Sometimes he forgot whole gaps in his life. It was like how he’d felt in the hospital wing after being possessed but magnified throughout his near fourteen years. What he didn’t forget, however, were all the memories Snape had unintentionally unlocked within him during legilimency. In fact, his memories of being a baby were some of his strongest and brightest, and Harry held them fiercely, unwilling to forget them ever again.

The memory lapses were never such a big deal, although they often coincided with a great deal of anxiety or panic. Once, his panic attack had been so severe that Aberforth had summoned Snape in his concern, unsure of what to do himself. Snape had conjured a month’s worth of calming potion and then swept back to the castle.

Harry hadn’t seen Snape very often since he’d saved him from the fire, sans their biweekly lessons wherein they discussed occlumency, defense, and Harry’s second least favorite topic, horcruxes. Beyond that, their relationship was tense, to say the least. Harry was immensely grateful to the man for all he’d done for him, including standing up to Dumbledore and advocating for his safety and comfort at Aberforth’s when his brother had tried to place him elsewhere. He was also supremely embarrassed at how much his professor knew about his life and unwilling to talk about anything he’d experienced at the Dursleys—his first least favorite topic. He was quite happy to try and forget about them.

Snape, too, seemed happy to avoid the topic of the Dursleys, though he still sometimes treated Harry like he was some abused kid or something. He wasn’t, though—Harry knew what real abuse looked like and didn’t like being treated as if he was as fragile or needy. Plus, beyond even that, now that they were out of the castle neither one of them seemed to know how to talk to the other; their conversations were awkward and stilted, usually ending in Snape making his excuses and leaving the Hog’s Head as quickly as he could. After he’d left, Harry would inevitably feel guilty, as if he’d done something wrong to offend or insult the man. He didn’t want to admit it, but he missed the easy conversation he’d fallen into with the man during his visits to Number Four—and even before that, their light banter and trust during the school year. It was an odd feeling, and Harry tried to ignore it as much as he could.

A crack of lightning sliced through the sky, and Harry smiled up at it. He liked to imagine he was a kindred spirit of lightning due to his scar, in some way connected to the storms that raged. He didn’t go inside immediately, instead sprawling out in the yard and letting the fat drops of rain splash down on his dark skin, reveling in the cool relief from the usual heat.

“Get in ‘fore you catch a cold,” Aberforth bellowed, and Harry scrambled indoors, running up the back stairs to change into his favorite Weasley sweater and some of Aberforth’s sweatpants. Clean and dry, he ran back down to the pub, slipping behind the bar and nearly crashing into Aberforth.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly, grinning widely.

“Havin’ fun, are yeh?”

“Yes!”

Aberforth chuckled and ruffled his hair, something Harry had grown to love over the last few months. At the beginning, he’d had to catch himself from flinching every so often, but now he was so used to it his body didn’t even tense up. He was proud of himself for that—it had taken a long time to forget his usual defenses—and he was grateful to Aberforth for being so kind and warm.

“Do you need any help with anything?”

“Nah, I reckon I’m doin’ alright, kid,” Aberforth said, eyes still smiling. “Pretty slow today. Yer havin’ visitors in a mo’ anyway, aren’t yeh?”

“At seven! I told them how to find the back door.” Living in the same place you worked got tricky, but it was pretty simple for Aberforth. He had the stairs behind the bar that led up to his floors, but you’d have to interact with customers if you wanted to go downstairs that way. The back of the building had better entrances to the rest of it but were warded from customers and such, as was the rest of the yard. A small entryway was blocked off entirely from the rest of the first floor, so if you wanted to leave out the back door you had to walk upstairs and then back down. It was confusing and more than a little inconvenient, but Harry loved the sense of security from the rest of the world. If he was having a bad day, if his anxiety spiked or he just didn’t want to deal with any of the regulars, he could safely hang out in the back lot or upstairs—either way, he wouldn’t be interrupted. “I’ll start making dinner, if you don’t need any help?”

“Absolutely,” Aberforth said, before greeting a giggling couple that had just run in from the rain. “You know what t’ do.”

“Thanks, Aberforth,” Harry said happily, and then ran back upstairs, waving to the two witches, Jeanie and Ruth. They were some of his favorite customers, an elderly couple that liked to drink, crochet, and gossip with Aberforth. Apparently, he’d known them for decades and they had a lot of fun, as Jeanie put it, ‘stitching and bitching’ for hours. But Harry didn’t have time to talk to them this afternoon—if he wanted to have dinner ready before Sirius and Remus got there, he’d have to hurry.

It was their first visit to the Hog’s Head this summer. Harry had written to Sirius pretty regularly, eager to keep up his relationship with his godfather. Since the fire, which Harry still didn’t like to think about all that much, he hadn’t seen Sirius once and missed him awfully. Sometimes he wished he could have lived with him but knew how difficult that would have been—not only did the wizarding world think Sirius was a mass murderer out to kill him, but Sirius had his own trauma and issues to work through. The combination of their various anxieties and issues would have been chaotic to deal with. It was better that both of them had an opportunity to heal over the summer—Harry with Aberforth, and Sirius with Remus.

Harry had also written a few letters to Remus, but not many. While he understood now that his professor’s memories and ability to recognize Harry had been damaged by Voldemort—another thing he wasn’t fond of thinking about—it still hurt that the man had ignored him for a full year, especially after he learned how close he was to his parents and to Sirius. Still, though, he could tell that Remus felt awful and was trying his best to learn more about Harry. It was awkward and difficult but, considering that he’d still be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher come September, Harry figured he should put in the effort to get to know his godfather’s… roommate. Friend. Something.

Harry climbed up onto a stool and reached up the kitchen cupboards, straining to grab the book he wanted. Triumphantly pulling it down, he flipped to the page he was looking for and ran through the ingredient list. Pulling everything he needed from the fridge and the pantry, Harry set out turning Aberforth’s kitchen into a complete mess, with rice and lentils and spices spilling everywhere.

He’d never cooked Indian recipes before—Aunt Petunia despised ‘foreign’ foods, barely even tolerating the Chinese buffet Dudley loved so much, and thought all curries looked like vomit—but desperately wanted to try. After Sirius had told him in a letter that James’ mum, Harry’s grandmother, was born in India, it had been all he could think about; Harry had so few solid facts about his family and hadn’t known until then where he was even from. Sirius—who apparently had a whole tapestry dedicated to his family’s genealogy—had been shocked at his lack of knowledge and sent copies of the few photos he had of James’ parents and family. One picture was in Udaipur, the city James’ mum had grown up in—James couldn’t have been older than five or six and was perched on his dad’s shoulders, in line with his mum and her parents in front of their house. They made such a happy family, all with fiercely black hair and bright, open smiles.

That was what Harry dreamed of, and what he could never have again. He knew it was hopeless to dream of. His real family was dead, and he had no choice but to struggle on without them. But the least he could do was to recreate some of the food James—and Sirius, when he lived with the Potters—had loved to eat: a simple potato and cauliflower curry, (store-bought) naan, and a rice kheer with cardamom and pistachio. There were all sorts of flavors Harry had never really had before, so he couldn’t tell if he was royally messing everything up, but he was happy in the kitchen, happy to reach into his family’s history and try to find something still breathing.

By the time Sirius and Remus knocked on the back door, the stovetop was covered in orange curry splatters and smoke was filtering out the small kitchen window.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Sirius joked as he scuffed his shoes off and surveyed the mess Harry had made. “The color really lightens everything up.”

Harry could tell Sirius was nervous; his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were darting around the room as if checking for escape routes. He let the man take in his surroundings and settle in, giving Sirius the same space that he would want in a new environment.

“Professor,” Harry said, looking past Sirius to Remus, who also seemed awkward. “Thank you for coming. Did you find it okay?”

“Oh, yes, Harry,” Remus said, giving a wan smile and removing his navy-blue raincoat. “We spent a lot of time in Hogsmeade trying to sneak some firewhiskies from Aberforth—finding this old haunt was no trouble at all.”

Harry smiled, imagining Sirius, Remus, and James being violently kicked out by the grumpy old man. No, there was a fourth boy in their group, wasn’t there: the one he didn’t want to think about, the one still out there even now, the one who destroyed his life.

“Aberforth’s still down running the bar,” he said to shake away his thoughts. This was meant to be a happy evening, light-hearted and warm. “He said to tell you both hello, though.”

Things were awkward at first. None of them seemed to want to take charge of the conversation, and nobody seemed to know how to act around each other, but once Harry served dinner, the atmosphere lightened considerably.

“It’s really good,” Sirius had said after his first bite of curry. “Not quite like Mrs. Potter’s, but I dunno how she always managed the perfect amount of spice, the point right before you think your tongue’s gonna drop off.”

Remus murmured an assent, nodding and smiling around his mouthful of rice. Harry glowed.

“Was mum a good cook?”

Remus snorted and choked on his food. “She was the worst,” he said, still coughing slightly. “Burnt every single thing in the kitchen. She tried to learn cooking charms and such but even those failed her—we used to joke that she was under a culinary curse.”

“It was your dad who cooked for the most part,” Sirius said, pointing his fork at Harry. “He was really good at soups and stews. He’d just find whatever he had leftover and throw it into a pot—he could never reproduce the recipe, but without fail every soup was perfect.”

“We used to do get-togethers,” Remus added, sitting back and looking up at the wall. “I’d bake bread, James would bring a soup or a pasta, Lily would buy something at the store, and Sirius would show up twenty minutes late with practically a whole keg’s worth of liquor.”

“Peter was always in charge of desserts,” Sirius said quietly, face blank of emotions. “He was a pro at all the fancy French stuff, eclairs and mille-feuille and whatnot. Anything with butter and sugar, he could make it.”

Harry’s smile, which had been bright the whole of dinner, faded considerably. “I forget about him,” he said. “I try to erase him from my thoughts of you and dad, because even though I never met him it just hurts too much. How can you still remember good things?”

Sirius didn’t respond, still staring down at his plate. His eyes were shining brightly, and Harry wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

“It’s difficult,” Remus said, and Harry thought he saw him reach for Sirius’ hand under the table. “For the last thirteen years, I thought he was dead. I thought it was Sirius who had betrayed us, and I spent those years mourning both of them in different ways. To have to confront the truth, to accept that Peter—Peter, who was always so gentle and mild and kind—had lied to us, had helped k-kill James and Lily… it’s a whole other process of grief, Harry. I want to hate him, I want to curse him, I want to forget him.” Remus took a deep breath, and Harry waited, an aching tightness in his throat.

“I want to forget him,” he said again, “but I can’t. I can’t let go of those memories, because there was a time when he was someone bright and wonderful, someone I loved as much as James or Sirius. Regardless of what’s happened since, or perhaps because of all that’s happened, I have to hold on to those shining memories and remember what’s worth treasuring.”

Sirius’ head was bowed, hair falling over his face. Remus’ smile was sad, but he looked at Harry with gentle eyes.

“That’s what pains me the most about this last year, Harry. I had you in class every week and never thought a second about it; I never questioned your presence. I didn’t remember you at all, not until Sirius found me and explained everything that had happened. I am so truly sorry for my absence in my life. Sirius has told me so many wonderful things about you, but that’s not the same as knowing you, as being someone you can trust and confide in. I do not deserve your forgiveness, Harry, but I will do all that I can to earn your friendship.”

This Remus Lupin was much different from the Professor Lupin Harry had seen at Hogwarts. That Remus had been callous and oblivious to Harry, emanating a kind of polite indifference. This Remus was far more vulnerable and genuine than Harry would have ever thought possible, and he was struck by how different all his professors could be out of class.

“You don’t need my forgiveness,” Harry said, fiddling with his napkin as he spoke. “It wasn’t your fault. Whatever magic is going wonky around me is just messing things up, I guess. Sirius didn’t know the real me, either; he had to learn. So, I can’t really be upset at you for not knowing or remembering.”

“You’re far kinder than we deserve,” Remus said.

“I don’t think so,” Harry said honestly. “I just think maybe none of us have had a whole lot of people be nice to us.”

Sirius gave a throaty laugh and looked at Harry for the first time in a while. “You’re the best kid I’ve ever met, Harry,” he said. “I was an idiot when I was thirteen, but you’re incredible.”

Harry flushed.

“I made rice kheer for after dinner,” he said, ignoring the happiness welling up inside him. “I was gonna make gulab jamun like you talked about, but I couldn’t find all the ingredients.”

“God, kheer sounds fantastic though. Remember when Lily tried to make it, Remus?”

“She left it simmering for so long it turned into sludge—she could barely scrape it out of the pot!” They all laughed together at the memory.

“Oh, yeah, and then she threw some of it at dad when he made fun of her,” Harry said—right before he remembered there were some things he hadn’t explained. Sirius and Remus stopped laughing at stared at him, open-mouthed.

“How would you know that?”

“Er… It’s a long story?”

“We have time,” Remus pointed out. “I’ll make tea.”

↠

Aberforth closed the pub a bit early that night, as he wanted to check on Harry and make sure nothing had gone wrong over dinner. He climbed the stairs, knees and floorboards groaning simultaneously. Warm light and soft voices emanated from the main room. Harry was curled comfortably in a pile of blankets on the floor next to the coffee table, cheeks pink and eyes bright with happiness and late-night energy—Aberforth could practically see the boy forcing himself awake. The other men, both of whom he vaguely recognized from their school days, looked about the same, sat side-by-side opposite him. The skinny one with the long hair—Black, he thought—had his knees pulled to his chest and was leaning on the other, looking half-asleep already.

“I think it’s past all your curfews, lads,” Aberforth said, and they all startled, Black jerking his head off Lupin’s shoulder.

“Aberforth!” called Harry, stumbling out of his blanket mess and coming to stand by him. “Are you hungry? There’s curry left, and kheer, and I can pull some more naan from the fridge, and I saved your armchair for you, and have you met Sirius and Remus before officially, as adults, I mean, and did everything go okay at the bar, and did the veela from last night come back in, and—”

“Woah, kid,” Aberforth said, lightly pushing Harry’s shoulder with his fingers. “Someone’s excited, huh?”

“Sorry.” Harry’s blush was even pinker now and Aberforth couldn’t help but laugh fondly along with Black and Lupin at the kid’s excitable antics. These last few months had been… a lot of work, if he was honest. Harry brought up emotions and difficulties that Aberforth hadn’t expected. He had no clue how to deal with the boy’s panic attacks, his nightmares, his mood swings. He didn’t know what to do when Harry wouldn’t—or couldn’t—talk or look at him for hours at a time. He didn’t know what to do when he Harry zoned out and couldn’t remember the last few hours—or days. He didn’t know what to do when Harry muttered in his sleep, not from nightmares but from the conversations he was having inside his own head.

Aberforth hadn’t spent so much time with a kid since Ariana, and while Harry made him appreciate her memories so much more, he also made it harder to face the guilt that came with remembering. If only he had been able to help her, to save her. How could he be sure he was doing the right thing with Harry? What if he messed this up, too?

But Harry was worth it. Undeniably. And seeing Black and Lupin’s looks of fondness and love for the boy made it doubly so. Aberforth knew he couldn’t take care of Harry permanently—he was too old, too embittered by the past, too fond of his own privacy and isolation to be anything more than a summer guardian; they hadn’t had that conversation yet, and he wasn’t looking forward to it one bit. The boy was sure to think he was abandoning him, sure to lose the fragile trust of adults he’d gained over the last few months. It was good that there were others to look out for him—Snape was there, sure, but Black and Lupin seemed at least slightly more appropriate figures to rely on. Ex-death eaters had a certain air about them that made Aberforth inclined _not_ to give them responsibility over a thirteen-year-old kid.

Lupin rose from the couch and leaned over to shake his hand. “Aberforth,” he said politely. “Thank you for having us. It’s been a delightful evening.”  
“Anytime. This lad’s got enough energy to knock the house down if he int careful—it’s good you came over.”

Black stood as well, looking much more disheveled than the other man. Aberforth could see the dog in him clearly; no matter how well he dressed or how well-kept his hair was, his eyes were wild and his energy frantic. He was half-feral. Despite that, though, his affection for Harry was obvious, and he looked a sight better than the way the boy had described him before.

“Harry said he’s going to the World Cup next week, is that right?”

Aberforth nodded. “Aye, the Weasleys invited ‘im. It’ll be good have friends that aren’t ancient farts like us.”

Black snorted. “Speak for yourself, I’m as spry as they come.”  
“We really should be heading out,” Lupin said, casting a fond glance towards Black. “Harry, thank you for the wonderful dinner.”

“You don’t have to leave yet!” Harry tried to protest but interrupted himself with a massive yawn. He swayed tiredly on his feet, and Black pulled him into a hug.

“We’ll write soon, I promise. Stay good. Stay safe. Don’t get into trouble.”

“Same to you,” Harry said, leaning into the hug longer than normal. “Be careful. Both of you.”

“Of course,” Lupin said, taking Black’s hand and pulling him towards the door. “Good night! Thanks again, for everything.”

Not ten minutes after they left, Harry was dead asleep, socks still on and not even under the covers. Aberforth had never expected to raise a kid—he’d been perfectly happy in his own isolated life—but something about having the small teen in his home, about making tea for two in the morning and reading books together on the patio and saying goodnight to someone, filled a hole in his heart he hadn’t known was there. Stepping in to the room, he pulled a light blanket over the sleeping boy, clicked the lamp off, then made his way back down the hall to his own bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

“All set?”

“For the millionth time, yes.” Harry rolled his eyes at Aberforth who was still fussing over him nearly as much as Mrs. Weasley did. “I have everything I need; I promise.”

“Don’t cry to me if you forgot somethin’, then.”

“I solemnly swear not to cry if I forget something—which I didn’t, because we’ve been over this at least twenty times by now.”

Aberforth lightly cuffed his neck and gave him a push towards the fireplace. “Off you are, then.” And then, in a drastic change of attitude: “If you need anything, owl me or firecall—I’ll be there.”

Harry smiled, hugging the man quickly before he walked to the fire with his satchel, cupping a handful of Floo powder in his hands.

“The Burrow!” The fire flashed a violent green and Harry felt the familiar rush of traveling across a whole country in mere seconds, body and mind spinning. He was used to Floo powder; everything was fine. He was not flashing back, he was not flashing back, he was not flashing back. He wasn’t stuck in his cupboard, the house wasn’t burning down, Voldemort wasn’t standing next to him. Everything was fine.

By the time he was spat out onto the floor of the Weasley’s home, Harry was trembling and struggling to breathe. He couldn’t manage to stand right away, still trying desperately to calm down and re-center himself in the present.

“Harry?” A warm but concerned voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Mrs. Weasley kneeling next to him, her brown eyes dark with kindness. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he panted, wiping his face with his shirt and taking in a few deep breaths. “I just… really hate fire.”

“Oh, you poor dear, I should have thought! Ron told us a bit about what happened, and of course the Floo wouldn’t be healthy for you, and—”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Weasley, really. It just caught me off guard.” Harry pushed himself to his knees and surveyed the room. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh, Ron is still asleep, the lay-about. I swear, he’d spend the whole summer unconscious if he could! Arthur is at work, he’ll be home sometime before dinner, I expect. Percy’s working hard in his room, Fred and George are god-knows-where, and Ginny is headed to meet Luna.”

“Is Luna going with us?”

Mrs. Weasley’s face twisted oddly at the mention of Luna. “Yes, she is, though I’m not sure why as she doesn’t seem terribly interested in Quidditch.”

“No, she thinks sports are rather silly. I think she might be lonely though, and Ginny and I are really good friends with her.”

“Hmph. Well, anyway—Hermione should arrive in a few hours, and Bill and Charlie will be here this evening as well. No one wants to miss your party!”

Harry blushed. “You didn’t have to do anything…” he protested feebly, but Mrs. Weasley brushed him away.

“Of course we did, Harry! With the way Ron’s acted to you this last year, it’s about time he put the right foot forward and apologized. A birthday party is the least we can do for you.”

“So, er… you remember me, then? Did Ron tell you about anything?”

“Yes, Harry, we all remember you. What a ridiculous question. Ron _did_ tell me about not remembering you—personally, I think it’s either a load of rubbish, or it’s finally a repercussion from Lockhart’s foiled memory charm from second year. But Hermione seems to concur with what he says, and, well… she’s got her head on straighter than he does, doesn’t she?”

“Er, yeah, I suppose,” Harry said, not wanting to say anything bad about Ron in front of his own mum. “Well, I’ll just walk about for a bit, I guess, until Ginny gets back.”

“Have you had anything to eat? Yes? Good—you do look much better than when we first met you. Those muggles, my lord. You were half-starved!”

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt and tried to angle his way towards the garden. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about the Dursleys, or Ron, or much of anything at all. The fire was still fresh in his mind, but chucking some gnomes was sure to relief the anxious energy he was feeling.

Outside, a gentle array of clouds washed over the sun, keeping the late-morning air light and comfortable. The Weasley garden was at least three times the size of the one he and Aberforth shared, bursting with strawberries and cucumbers and tomato vines. It was far messier than Harry’s, too, but it looked ripe with life and beautiful food. Already, Harry was dreaming of everything he could make: tomato curries, mint chutneys, cucumber salads. His little garden was wonderful, but he didn’t have half the fresh ingredients he saw here. The kitchen had become a safe haven for Harry this summer, a place where he could make a mess and try new things and not worry about any repercussions. He could try what he wanted, eat what he wanted—the Dursleys weren’t there to take food away from him or yell at him if he burnt something. He’d been so anxious the first night he cooked for Aberforth, terrified the man wouldn’t like it; dozens of fears ran through his head, that the pasta was overcooked and mushy, that he’d over-salted the water, that the sauce was too runny—but none of his worries mattered, because Aberforth didn’t care how things tasted as long as they were more or less edible, and even if he did care, he would never hurt Harry or yell at him the way the Dursleys had. He was finally realizing how _safe_ he was this summer and, in comparison, how _unsafe_ he had been before.

Some of the strawberries were ripe, and Harry pulled them from their stems, clutching them in his hands as gently as possible so they didn’t stain or bruise.

“Mrs. Weasley,” he called through the open door, “Can I pull your garden?”

For the next hour, he set about perusing the garden, picking everything that was ripe and carrying baskets of produce into the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley was overjoyed.

“Thank you so much, dear,” she said fondly as he lugged a bundle of cucumber and zucchini past her. “I just never get around to it; half the garden goes to waste most summers!”

By noon, Harry was covered in sweat, dirt, and bugs, feeling far less anxious than he had earlier in the day, and Luna and Ginny were making their way down the hill to the Burrow.

“Harry!” they both cried out, and ran to hug him, half-knocking him over in their excitement. “We missed you so much!”

“Eurgh,” Ginny said as she gracelessly crawled off Harry, who’d fallen to the ground under their weight. “You’re so stinky.”

Harry laughed, and accepted her hand to hoist himself back up. “You’re one to talk,” he said. “You’ve been out all morning, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m fresh as a garden rose, silly.”

“She really is,” Luna said seriously. “How are you, Harry? It feels like it’s been so long.”

The two girls helped Harry finish up in the garden while chatting away about their summers, and then they made their way into the kitchen, arms full of the remaining haul.

Mrs. Weasley greeted them with cheer, though she turned away from Luna quickly and bustled past to start lunch. “Ginny, go wake up your brother, would you? Throw water on him if you need to.”

Ginny grinned maniacally and stormed up the stairs with the promise to be back in seconds. Distantly, Harry could hear her yelling at Ron to wake up and his resulting groan of agony. Harry and Luna exchanged looks of exasperation and fondness for Ginny’s antics, then settled on the sofa to wait.

“Are you okay though, Harry? Really?”

“I’m alright, Luna, I promise. Aberforth’s been really great.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything, you know,” Luna said, “But I haven’t forgotten everything that happened _before_ Aberforth. You’re hurting somewhere in there, Harry, and it’s my job to make sure you know you’re not alone.”

Harry gave her an appreciative smile. “I know; thank you. I’m… nothing’s easy. I nearly had a panic attack this morning just trying to use the Floo. But I’m so much better than I was, and _he_ isn’t spending all his time talking to me anymore, so it’s okay.”

“Huh. You do feel _different_ than when he was with you. Emptier, almost.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not any worse. I’m not sure he’s gone, though, and I’m not sure he should be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, but before she could answer, Ginny and Ron came trouncing down the stairs.

“Er, hey, Luna. Hi, Harry,” Ron said, already beet red and awkward. He looked as if he’d just woken up—which he had—and thrown on a random shirt and some trousers. The orange Chudley Cannon’s tee clashed horribly with his blush.

“Hi, Ron,” Harry said just as awkwardly. “Thanks for inviting me. Doing alright?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, hands shoved in his pockets. He didn’t make perfect eye contact. “You?”

“Decent.”

“Boys,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes. “Come on, Luna, I wanna show you the new poster I got for my room.”

“Door open!” Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen. “Lunch will be ready in just a moment!”

Tugging Luna along behind her, Ginny disappeared back up the stairs, leaving Harry and Ron alone.

“Listen, I—I’m really sorry, mate. That doesn’t fix what I did, I know that, but I feel wretched. It’s the stupidest decision I’ve ever made, by far. And I used to let Fred and George tell me what to do. Just—thanks for coming, and for giving me another chance, i-if you decide to, that is.”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “It _was_ stupid. You were a prat.”

“Well, yeah. That’s on par with my personality sometimes, I think.”

“Yeah, but Ron, you’re still my best friend. Even if you did… that. Even if you don’t remember everything. I still… I still _love_ you. You’re basically my brother; you’re family. Family does stupid things sometimes.”

“That’s for sure,” Ron said, cracking a grin. “This summer alone has proven that. Fred and George are trying to start a joke shop from their _bedroom_. Mum’s furious.”

Harry laughed. “How are they gonna get away with that?”

“They’re not! She keeps catching them and destroying all their stuff, but somehow they sneak supplies back in all over again. She’s grounded them for eternity, basically, but they’re still at it. They keep spiking Percy’s drinks with testers, too; she nearly killed George when she caught him, but last time Perce didn’t stop throwing up for hours. It was right scary.”

God, was this what it would be to have a family? Chaos and calamity and near-deaths over dinner—but still love, always love? Ron could gripe about Mrs. Weasley’s punishments, but had she ever locked them in a cupboard? Put bars on their windows, a cat flap on their door? Lied to them for eleven years about their parents, their entire life? A rush of envy welled up inside him, and he shoved it down to laugh along with Ron and then start up a game of wizard’s chess.

“There’s really nothing to forgive,” he said as Ron claimed yet another of his pawns. “I was a mess all last year. You outing me to everyone isn’t even in the top three worst things that happened.”

“What did happen, mate? You just disappeared; it was weird.”

“Yeah, I, uh… I had to go back and stay with my aunt and uncle. I know you don’t remember, but—”

“They’re wankers,” Ron said strongly. “They—hang on, didn’t they lock you up? Yeah, we had to come save you!”

“Yeah, you did! And they are! Do you remember?”

“Fred drove the car, right? And, oh… I drove the car to Hogwarts! We got in so much trouble. Bloody hell; how could I forget something as big as that? Mum sent a howler.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he snorted.

“Oy, don’t laugh. That was embarrassing as hell!”

“It was a bit funny,” Harry said, still smirking. “You tried to hide under the table.”

“Who wouldn’t? Mum’s terrifying.”

“That’s right I am,” Mrs. Weasley said from right behind them, “And lunch is ready, so you better get the girls and then wash your hands. Come on, then: hurry up.”

They scrambled to call Luna and Ginny down and then find their spots at the haphazard dining table with its mismatched chairs and uneven legs. Percy, too, made his way down for lunch, going on about cauldron bottoms and his very important job which, to Harry, sounded like the most uninteresting job in the world. Fred and George were still nowhere to be seen; while Mrs. Weasley wasn’t listening, Ron whispered that he’d heard them in the attic, tinkering around with the ghoul.

The next few hours passed a lot quicker than Harry expected. Though so much had changed, it was still just as easy to slip into conversation with Ron as it had been that first year on the train. That was his best trait, really: underneath everything, Ron knew what it meant to be a friend.

“Do you want to know my birth name?” Harry asked while the four of them were walking the hills by the Burrow.

“No,” Ron said quickly. “No, mate, Charlie told me all about that. I’m not supposed to ask; it’s rude and it’s uncomfortable and your dead name is dead, and stuff.”

Harry thought about that. “That makes sense,” he said, “but I think that if I want to tell you, then I should be able to, right? It doesn’t bother me too much—I don’t even really remember people calling me by my old name.”

Ron still looked uncomfortable, but Luna piped in, “It’s like a gift that Harry’s giving—you can’t give it to anyone else, because it’s yours, but you can still open and appreciate it,” and he nodded.

“They called me Leonie,” Harry said, sitting down in the grass to pick some wildflowers. The rest followed suit, creating a small circle at the top of the hill. The clouds were golden and fluffy. “It means lion, which is really stupid of them, but I kind of love it.”

“Is it weird, to suddenly know a name you can’t remember at all?” Ginny asked, pulling apart strands of grass and throwing them at Luna.

“Yeah, it’s like, I know I shouldn’t like hearing it, because I’m not a girl and it’s not my name, but at the same time it’s one of the only things I have from them. It’s not my name, but it’s still a part of me.”

“I can understand that, kind of,” Luna said. “I hate my birth name, I don’t want anyone to know it. But it’s the only name my mum knew to call me—she died before I realized my name was Luna. So it’s a part of her, somehow, more than it is a part of me.”

Harry reached for Luna’s hand and squeezed it, trying to give her as much comfort as he could. She gave him a small smile, eyes bright.

“How does Charlie know so much about trans stuff, anyway?” Harry asked Ron and Ginny.

“He dated a trans girl a few years ago and learned a lot through her, I guess,” Ginny said. “But he’s always been knowledgeable about stuff like that.”

“He’s got lots of trans friends, I think,” Ron added. “He’s… let’s just say mum’s not fond of all of his life choices.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s old-fashioned,” Ron said at the same time Ginny said, “She’s a prejudiced ignoramus.”

“Oy,” Ron said, “That’s our _mother—_ you can’t just call her that!”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Ginny said hotly. “You see the way she acts around Luna and me.”

“She thinks you’re too young! She’s just looking out for you.”

“Ha! Bill had a girlfriend in first year and she never said anything about it. Percy keeps talking about asking Penelope Clearwater to _marry him_ even though he’s barely out of school and she doesn’t say anything about that, either. But if I want to invite Luna to the World Cup just like you do with Harry and Hermione? She loses her mind! If Charlie brings home a boy instead of a girl? She can barely be in the same room!”

Harry was more than a little confused. “I thought wixen didn’t care if you were gay? Also—are you two dating?”

“Where did you get those ideas from?” Luna asked mildly, not seeming put out by the topic of Mrs. Weasley’s seeming distaste of her. “We’re not really dating so much as we are just very close and love each other. I think I’m rather too interesting to ‘date’ someone, don’t you?”

“Oh. I thought… I dunno, I know some adults who are… in relationships, I guess.” He wasn’t sure if he should tell them about Sirius and Remus— _he_ only knew because of some memories he wasn’t even supposed to remember, but now that he thought of it he wasn’t sure if they were out to the world. He also thought of Aberforth’s two friends, the women who always came to the bar together. “I just thought it was a non-issue, at least compared to the Muggle world. My uncle—he really hated gay and trans people a lot. Anyone who was different, really.” He ended the sentence with a sad shrug, focusing intently on the grass instead of his friends’ faces.

“I guess it might not be as bad as the Muggles,” Ginny said, “but people are awfully ‘old-fashioned,’ to use Ron’s word. Most purebloods have really old notions about marriage and relationships and stuff. Mum’s not the worst, Ron’s right about that, but she grew up thinking that you _had_ to get married and be straight or else you were unnatural and wrong.”

Harry’s heart hurt to hear that. He loved Mrs. Weasley. She was the first adult to reach out to him with no ulterior motive; when she’d helped him onto the platform, he’d been amazed at her kindness.

“Does she… does she hate me, then?”

“Not at all,” Ron said. “Mum loves you; she’s over the moon. She was so mad when I… well.”

“But she’s not all that fond of me,” Luna said, voice small. “It’s different for some reason.”

“Yeah, she’s never even brought up you being trans,” Ginny said.

“I think it’s like the rest of the world, how everyone just _knew_ you were a boy. But she judges Luna differently—which isn’t fair at all, Luna.”

“It was my accidental magic,” Harry said, the guilt of his privilege washing over him. How could Mrs. Weasley accept him but not Luna? He couldn’t tell them the full truth—not yet, at least—but he could try. “It interacted with my wishes and with what my mum did to save my life when You-Know-Who tried to kill me. It listened to what I wanted, and it made people think I was a boy—but then it went too far. It started messing up memories, even my own, until things were so mixed up that it was like I was never a girl at all. That’s why people have an easier time with it, I think. But it’s not right that I should be treated better just because of something I didn’t even mean to do.”

“Don’t feel guilty,” Luna said, and Harry looked up to meet her eyes, which were strong and intent. “It’s not your fault, and I’m not jealous. I’m sad, but I’m not upset. Does that make sense? Maybe if Mrs. Weasley can understand you, she will understand me eventually, too. For now, I have you, and Ginny, and Ron, and Draco, too. I have _friends,_ and that’s more than I’ve ever had before. It’s wonderful to be here, and I wouldn’t change anything.”

Ginny leaned into Luna’s side and wrapped her arm around her. “You’re wonderful,” she said fiercely. “C’mon, though, we better get back soon so we can meet Hermione when she gets here.”

Harry was the last to get up, accepting a hand from Ron whose brown eyes were flickering in the late-afternoon sunlight. “You alright, mate?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, shaking away the residual sadness and guilt he still felt. “Yeah, I’m good.”

They walked back to the Burrow, hand in hand, the four of them forming a long shadow across the grass. Harry felt the familiar pull of emptiness reach out to him but pushed it away. He was with his friends. He wouldn’t fall away like he sometimes did. He would be present, he would be focused, he would be there. He was with his friends—he would not leave them.

↠

Charlie was _cool._ Bill was cool, too—long hair and pierced ears and wicked stories about cursed tombs and goblin lore—but Charlie was amazing. He was what Harry dreamed of being, really—masculine and good-looking and confident and funny and _cool._ His sun-browned arms were covered in freckles and tattoos and the odd dragon-related scar, and the more he looked the more Harry saw. Every part of Charlie was toned, but despite his obvious strength and power he was the most casual guy in the world. Harry couldn’t help but watch him as he threw his head back and laughed, throat bobbing with each breath, curly locks falling across his forehead.

Harry was too shy and nervous to talk to him directly, but he listened to the loud conversations the Weasleys threw across the dinner table with awe and admiration. Charlie had what he wanted: a cool flat in a cool country working with cool animals and cool people, not caring at all what anyone else thought of him. Despite what Ron and Ginny had said about Mrs. Weasley’s obvious discomfort with Charlie’s lifestyle, he talked freely about his current boyfriend, a Romanian bloke who shared his interests in dragons, bars, and really bad punk rock. His grin was massive, teeth straight and shining, lips pink and full.

“You have a cruuuush,” Luna whispered to Harry as they were cleaning up after dinner.

“I do not!”

“Oh yes, you do. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, could you?”

“I don’t,” Harry said, a hint of panic in his voice. He couldn’t have a crush on a guy—he wasn’t gay. “And he’s like seven years older than us, that’s gross.”

“Done the math, have you?”

Harry was blushing and sputtering, unable to come up with a response, and Luna took pity on him.

“I’m just teasing, Harry,” she said gently, patting his shoulder. “I should’ve remembered you wouldn’t be ready to talk about this yet.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, but she was already walking away towards Ginny, who was talking animatedly with Fred and George.

Shaking his head, Harry carried the dishes into the kitchen and bumped straight into Charlie.

“Oops, sorry, mate,” Charlie said brightly. “Here, lemme get those for you.” He levitated the stack of dishes into the sink, where they instantly started sudsing.

“Woah,” Harry said. “Thanks.” His cheeks were on fire.

“Listen, I wanted to talk to you, if that’s alright,” Charlie said, leaning back against the kitchen wall and studying Harry.

“Er, yeah. I s’ppose.”

“Ron told me what he did last year. I gave him grief for it, and I think he’s come around quite a bit, but I just want to make sure you know that if he says something stupid, you can write me. Or if anyone says something stupid, really, because lord knows Ron’s not the only one. I’m here if you need an ear, ‘kay?”

“Why are you being so nice?” Harry couldn’t help the slight quaver in his voice as he asked. There weren’t many people who had offered to help him after knowing him for just an evening.

“My first girlfriend after leaving Hogwarts was trans, and she struggled a lot. Her family didn’t accept her at all, and the wizarding world in general has some weird notions about gender. It was really hard for her, and eventually she had to move to the muggle world just to get the medical care she needed.”

“Is she okay?”

“She is. She’s in London and thriving, just got married last fall. But she suffered through a lot of shite she shouldn’t have had to, and I don’t want you to go through this alone the way she did for so many years. Some of my best mates now are trans guys and I’ve picked up some tips from them, stuff that might be helpful if you’re confused on anything. Plus, Ron was a wanker, and I’m responsible for making sure you don’t think _all_ the Weasleys are that stupid.”

“Ron’s not too bad, he’s just… he just makes mistakes, sometimes. He’s already apologized a bunch. I think you helped sort him out, honestly.”

Charlie grinned. “Glad to hear it. But seriously, Harry. If you need to talk, just let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” Harry said, ignoring the urge to ask him a million questions already. “I’ll remember. Thanks, Charlie.” The man’s name was sweet and warm as he said it, and an unfamiliar wave of butterflies swept over him when Charlie gave him a broad, magnificent grin.

All in all, this was by far the best birthday Harry had ever had.

That night, in a pile of blankets on the floor of Ron’s bedroom, Harry dreamed of a grand, ornate sitting room. The windows were all covered, the only light coming from a roaring fireplace, by which a man with long, silvery hair was kneeling.

“My lord,” the man said, voice tremulous with fear, “everything is in order for tomorrow.”

A hissing, spitting noise came from the armchair next to the man. It took Harry a moment to realize it was a voice.

“Excellent, Lucius,” it said. The voice felt like ice and jarred against Harry’s head, even in his dreams. “You will retrieve the rat then?”

“Yes, my lord. We are most looking forward to hosting him at the manor, my lord."

“He will be a fine friend for young Draco, will he not? A perfect mentor in the coming years.”

The man—Lucius—shook slightly at the mention of Draco, tremors wracking his body. “Of course, my lord,” he said, barely more than a whisper. He kept his head bowed to the ground, face hidden to all but the rug beneath his knees.

“Are you not happy with these arrangements, Lucius? Was it not you who sought me out, who willingly saved me and took me in? Are you regretting your compassion?”

“No, my lord, never,” Lucius said to the armchair. “Anything, for you. Anything. We serve you, all of us.”

“Then from where does your doubt arrive? Do not lie to me, my slippery friend.”

“There are no doubts, none. I simply think… I believe… it may be possible to complete our task without relying on my son. He is so young, and to base our plans on his—”

“So you do not have confidence in our Draco? Pity—if he is not useful to me, Lucius, then perhaps he is not useful to you, either.”

“I, that is to say, I mean, no, he is—He can do it, my lord. But we could do it without the boy.”

“Without Harry Potter?” The voice laughed, a brackish, coughing sound. “You have done much for me these few months, Lucius, but surely you are not foolish enough to think I could leave the boy alone?"

“Yes, my lord, that is true, but—”

“I could achieve my goals without Potter, this is true. But why would I? Why, when if I _do_ have him, I will have more power than I could possibly imagine without?:

The fire crackled beyond the armchair, and Lucius started with the sudden noise. Sparks flew from the grate and onto the floor.

“Draco has his role to play, Lucius. He cannot fail. If he does, I will be most displeased.”

“Of course, my lord. He will not fail. We are your most faithful, your most loyal…”

The voice laughed again, and Lucius flinched backwards. “You are loyal, this is true. You have done much for me, have given me my strength. But still you waver, Lucius—do not think I am blind to your fear. No, my most faithful will arrive shortly, and then our true plans will be underway. Harry Potter is right where I want him, and with my servants in Hogwarts and beyond, I will have him in my clutches within the year. My world is coming, Lucius, and you will be there to build it. I understand, I truly do. It has been so long since you have served. You must simply relearn your trust, Lucius, and I am a patient and generous man. I will help you.”

Before Lucius could speak again, the voice cried out, “Crucio!” Pain ricocheted through Harry’s body, and as he woke he wasn’t sure who was screaming—he or Lucius.

Harry didn’t tell his friends about the dream, and by the time he’d stumbled his way through breakfast and begun his trek towards the portkey, it was milky and vague in his memory. He knew Draco’s father had been there, and he’d guessed the voice was Voldemort, but beyond that… They were planning something, something involving him. But when wasn't Voldemort trying to stir up a mess that involved Harry?

For the most part, his memory of the dream was infused with terror. Not Voldemort’s, but Lucius’s. That was odd, right? He was connected to Voldemort; that was the only reason he was able to have these dreams, so why would Lucius’s feelings be stronger?

The best thing to do, in Harry’s opinion, was to ignore his dream and move on. None of his dreams from the year before had meant much of anything—the rat, the snake’s nest, the old house… he supposed some of the images made sense, like the black dog—clearly Sirius—and the werewolf—he guessed it was Lupin, although he hadn’t yet seen his form. The only image that had really made sense, though, had been the one with Voldemort in the forest, but that had ended up being something in his mind, not an actual event. He’d thought it was in the Forbidden Forest, but it hadn’t been. So maybe this dream was in his mind, too? But why would Lucius be there?

“You alright, Harry?” Ginny jostled him with her shoulder, and he stumbled slightly.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, smiling at her. “Just sleepy.”

“God, I get that,” she said. “I keep falling asleep while we walk.”

They met Cedric Diggory, a seventh year, and his dad at the portkey, and then they were in a hot, sweaty field filled with thousands of people from all over the world. It was a little overwhelming, and Harry was relieved for the respite of the tent, which—though it smelled of cats—was larger than it looked and much cooler than any muggle camping he’d ever heard of.

Hermione, Ginny, and Luna were sharing their own smaller tent, and so Harry shared a room with Ron while Fred and George took their own, leaving two for Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie to decide over. Though there weren’t any windows in the exterior design of the tent, each room had a plastic laminate window they could see through. After a few trials, they concluded that while they could see outside, no one could see or hear them through the disguise of the smaller tent. 

The shops and tents were full of color and noise and all sorts of things to goggle over, and the small group of teens spent the day wandering here and there through the field, discovering all they could. Harry swore he saw a flash of bright blond hair in one of the stands, but when he turned to look again, it was gone. Maybe it had just been Luna.

As the sun fell in the sky, everyone began herding their way through the woods and towards the stadium. Mr. Weasley led them all up to the top box, where Harry met the second house elf of his life, Winky. She was even more curious than Dobby in his opinion and seemed terrified to look or speak at anyone. The box quickly filled with various politicians, including the Bulgarian prime minister, Cornelius Fudge, Barty Crouch—Winky’s owner, apparently, though she seemed even more frightened to see him—and then—

“Ah, here’s Lucius,” Fudge said, waving avidly to a tall, thin man with a sheen of blond hair falling down his back. “And Narcissa and Draco, too; how lovely to see you all.”

Harry and his friends all turned quickly to stare at the family as they entered the box. Lucius’s face seemed carefully blank, as did his wife’s. Draco looked as though he was trying to look casual and cool, but his eyes shot to Harry’s, widening slightly. He looked strangely vulnerable, and Harry couldn’t help but watch him as he took his seat on the other side of the box.

Draco had sent him a letter earlier that summer, asking to meet. He’d seemed scared of something. He’d said—oh, Harry felt stupid that he hadn’t put it together before—that someone, Voldemort, was in his home. He’d asked to meet Harry, who had responded inviting him to Hogsmeade whenever he had the chance, but Draco hadn’t responded since. Was he okay? Was he safe? Voldemort had said something about him in his dream, hadn’t he? Harry just couldn’t remember _what._

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, nudging his side. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” Harry turned to Hermione, confused. “What do you mean?”

“The game started, Harry. You haven’t moved or anything. You look… weird.”

Harry looked to the field; sure enough, the two teams were already whizzing about, and he could hear Bagman’s narrative loud and clear through the air.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, “Just kinda dazed, I guess. Thanks, Hermione.”

She nodded, still looking concerned, and squeezed his hand. Smiling, he turned his attention to the field, and watched as Viktor Krum dived into a Wronski Feint. He ignored all thoughts of Draco, Voldemort, and dreams, instead focusing on Ireland and Bulgaria as they swooped through the air, whooping along with Ron and the others whenever a particularly good play was made.

Later that night, he really shouldn’t have been surprised when the screams started. He’d _heard_ Voldemort talking—shame on him for not listening.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, just as Mr. Weasley burst through the tent and ordered them to the forest. Bursts of flame shimmered through the nylon tent, lighting up the rooms intermittently. Sounds of people running rushed around them.

“Do _not_ separate!” he ordered them. “Stick with each other and with the group of people; don’t be caught alone.”

Everyone’s faces were white with fear, and Luna was trembling. Stepping out of the tent, Harry was hit with a blast of panicked, frantic energy. Across the field, a group of wizards marched slowly towards them. Their wands pointed upwards, and Harry saw what they were levitating through the air above them: bodies, writhing and contorting as they screamed in pain and terror. Some of the bodies were very small, smaller than Harry himself. Children.

The wizards, who were masked and hooded, laughed and jeered at the bodies above them. The group seemed to swell as people joined them, blasting tents and people away from their path. Harry was shaking with fear and anger and something else, something deeper and darker, something in his core. Someone was pulling him, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.

“Harry!” Someone yelled in his ear, warm breath tearing him away from his trance. It was Charlie. “Harry, you’ve got to go! If they find you, they’ll—you have to go, Harry. Go to the woods with the others.”

Harry looked, and saw that his friends were already several paces away, looking desperately back at him. Charlie clasped his shoulders.

“It’ll be okay, mate. We’re gonna fix this. The best thing you can do now is run.”

Shakily, Harry nodded and turned towards the others, who looked relieved as he ran towards them.

Despite the masses of people running through it, the forest was dark and quiet, as if a sense of peaceful nighttime still lingered in its bones. Harry could hear his heartbeat in his ears as they ran, could feel each footfall shake through his body. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, Fred, George, Bill, Charlie, Mr. Weasley—it was too many people. And the others—Draco, Cedric, Seamus, Neville, all the others he’d seen today. Would they all be okay?

And then, before he could even shout a warning to his friends, he was being ripped backwards behind a tree, and he listened to the pounding footsteps of his group fall away from where he was.

“Potter,” came a familiar voice, desperate and shaky with nerves. “Please for the love of god do not say a word.”

Harry stayed silent, listening to the deep rasps of their breaths mix into the air. He’d been shoved forcefully against the bark of the tree and could feel it grinding against his spine. An ant was crawling along the length of his arm.

“Your father’s in that crowd,” Harry whispered, eyes searching out Draco’s in the darkness.

“I know,” Draco said hollowly. “I’m supposed to be there, too.”

“Why aren’t you?”

Draco laughed. “I’m a coward,” he whispered. “It’s why I’m so bad at chess—I don’t want to play any of my pieces.”

“You have to, at some point.”

“I know,” Draco said again, and for a moment he seemed to lean into Harry’s body to relax the tension that ripped through his body. “I’m trying.”

Another scream shook the trees, and they both stiffened, breathing hard into the night. Harry could smell Draco, sweat and pine needles.

“Tell Dumbledore that V-Voldemort’s coming back. Tell him… tell him he’s at Malfoy Manor. Tell him that he, that he has a plan. Tell him that I don’t want to be like my father. Please.”

“I will,” Harry said, and Draco let out a small breath. “Are you okay?”

Someone was calling his name—it sounded like Hermione.

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said. “Listen, at school, don’t let me be your friend. Okay? Don’t let me be your friend.”

“What?” Harry tried to grab Draco’s wrist, but the boy was already shoving him back onto the path and then melting back into the darkness. “Draco,” he hissed, but there was no response. Draco was gone.

When he reconvened with Hermione and the rest of the group—claiming he’d simply stumbled over a branch and had to tie his shoe—they didn’t make it much further before stopping.

“No one’s around,” Ron said, “and we’ll be able to hear anything sneaking up on us. I reckon we wait here for a bit and see if we can find dad or any of the others.” Bill, Charlie, and Percy had all stayed behind with Mr. Weasley to help out.

The group sat down, forming a misshapen circle and looking anxiously at one another.

“Who were those people in the air?” Ginny asked.

“I think they were muggles,” Fred said. “The people torturing them were death eaters.”

Luna let out a small sob, and Ginny hugged her.

“How’d they get here, though?” Ron asked. “How could this have happened?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” At their blank faces, Hermione continued, “Well, obviously a lot of them are still involved in politics and the ministry, like Lucius Malfoy. I’ll bet anything that he’s one of the leaders tonight. The security for this was only keeping out muggles—not muggle-hating wizards hell-bent on torture and murder.” Hermione’s voice was shaking, but her fists were clenched, and her words were clear. Harry realized she was the only muggleborn in their group—she was closest to those being tortured, closest to being the next victim. He reached for her hand and pulled her fist apart to entwine his fingers with hers.

“They won’t get away with it,” he said. “There are still some good people in the ministry, and they’ll stop them. They’ll—”

But stopped abruptly, listening to the sound of nearing footsteps. Someone was stumbling towards them, and he waved to his friends to be as quiet as possible.

Just a few paces away from their spot, the person stopped, and all was quiet. Harry didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t think for fear of making their place known.

“Morsmordre,” the person said, their voice scratchy and timid. A burst of green light shot through the sky, just like the green in his dreams of his parents’ death. Harry flinched backwards, stepping on leaves and branches as he did; the crinkling sounds were amplified in the dark silence, and he felt rather than heard the person turn towards them.

“Who’s there?” the voice asked, and then there was a great crack of noise as about twenty wixen apparated around them.

“Stupefy!” the wixen yelled, and streaks of red flew over Harry’s head from all sides. It was lucky they had all been sitting, otherwise they would have been hit. It was also lucky that Mr. Weasley was among the crowd, otherwise it would have been a lot more difficult to prove they were innocent and had definitely not cast the Dark Mark—Voldemort’s mark, as Harry learned that night.

Harry swore up and down that the man wouldn’t have had time to apparate or run away before the ministry had arrived, but even so, there was no sign of him. Mr. Crouch, one of the wizards in the group, had stared at Harry intently as he described the man’s voice—the only thing he had to identify him.

“He sounded afraid,” Harry said, and Crouch narrowed his eyes.

“Afraid? Of what?”

“The spell, I think. Seemed reluctant, almost.”

None of them talked very much that night, and it was a relief to be back at the Burrow the next morning, where Mrs. Weasley’s coddling chatter kept Harry distracted from other issues. They sent him home that night; strangely, it was even more difficult to use the Floo the second time around, remembering his prior reaction and the suffocation of the cupboard. He had to squeeze his eyes shut before he walked into the fireplace, bracing himself against the heat.

When he landed in the sitting room at Aberforth’s, breathing hard with his eyes still shut, it was Snape who greeted him.

“Clumsy as always, Potter,” he sneered, grasping Harry’s elbow and hoisting him up.

“Sorry,” Harry gasped, focusing on the sensations around him—Snape’s voice, Snape’s hand, the tick of the broken grandfather clock, Snape’s eyes staring down at him. His body was not on fire, his skin was not broiling, he—

“You are safe, Harry,” Snape’s cool voice said, and Harry tried to focus only on that, only on the soft rumble of Snape’s throat. “There is no fire, and you are at Aberforth’s. Nothing will hurt you here.”

Then, he whispered some sort of charm, and a chilly air washed over him. Though it was early August, it felt like late November, like the beginning of a fresh snow. Harry shivered, and inhaled deeply.

“I trust you are calmer now?”

“Yes,” Harry said, wrapping his arms around himself and moving to the sofa to sit. “Thank you.”

Snape did not respond, instead sitting across from him and looking him up and down.

“I have been asked to check in on you given the events of yesterday. Mr. Weasley notified the headmaster of your run-in with the caster of the Dark Mark. What happened?”

Harry told him the little he knew.

“His voice sounded familiar? Like a professor, or someone you’ve met?”

“Er, no, not that I can think of. Definitely not a professor, I don’t think. It’s… it’s distant. Really far off in my head. I’m not even sure I’ve met them, if that makes sense.”

“It does not.”

Harry laughed despite himself. “No, I guess it doesn’t. Hey, there’s something else though.” He fumbled through what Draco had told him the night before as well as the letter he’d received in June. “He’s really scared, professor. Do you think you can help him?”

“That depends,” Snape said, brow furrowed. “There is little I can do without endangering Draco or myself.”

“Right: double agent.”

Snape sneered at the term but dipped his head in assent. “Further, I am not sure we can trust young Mr. Malfoy.”

“He could have hurt me,” Harry pointed out, “But he didn’t.”

“Of his own volition, or on orders? As I see it, it is most probable that the Dark Lord wants to use Draco as a connection to you—he could easily manipulate you through Draco.”

“I mean, yeah, I think that’s what Voldemort said, but—”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh.” Damn his mouth. Harry was forced to relay his last dream, quickly saying afterwards, “I don’t think it means much, though. I mean, the last dreams were all in my head, weren’t they? Maybe I just made it up.”

Snape sighed, pinching his brow. “No, Potter, you did not just make it up. Have you not gotten it through your head what your connection means?”

“I—I know I’m a horcrux, if that’s what you mean. There’s… a part of him inside me. And that’s why he can talk to me, and why my accidental magic got so screwed up, right?”

“In short, yes,” Snape said. “He preyed on your internal wishes and fears and imbued your accidental magic with his own strength, allowing the world to twist around you. People forgot your name, your identity, and other important details. Some people, like Lupin, who is a half-breed and shares a different mental state once every month, and Black, who spent most of your childhood as a dog rather than a human, were affected differently than others.”

“What does that have to do with my dreams, though?”

“The point, if you would let me finish, is that the Dark Lord did not and does not have ultimate control over your mental state or your powers. He was unable to properly control your accidental magic, and things got out of hand, such as your own memory loss regarding your past. He did not intend for that to happen—though he may consider it an advantage nonetheless. Further, he cannot control his side of the connection. If you are dreaming such realistic things, the only sensible reasoning is that you are living through his own real-time experiences.”

That made sense, though it didn’t make Harry any happier.

“I think Lucius was scared, then. I don’t think he wants Voldemort in his home anymore.”

“No, I do not think he does,” Snape mused.

“Sir, if I’m seeing real-time stuff now, then what about all the weird visions I saw last year? The rat, the snakes, and stuff?”

“You are… an incomprehensible amalgam of oddities, Potter. Some of those things were straightforward, were they not? The dog, the werewolf? It is likely the others are elements that have yet to come into play. That, or they are symbols—you were focused primarily on animal forms, which can represent various things in divination.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Then what about the visions with Voldemort in my head? How come I could see the future?”

Snape sighed loudly. “I do not _know,_ Potter. My best guess is that that is yet another feature of your mental bindings to the Dark Lord, but honestly? You could just have a talent for divination. It is rare, but not unheard of.”

“You actually believe in that stuff?”

“I have… heard a few prophecies of my own to believe in their potency. The vast majority are utter nonsense, but the talent itself should not be discounted.”

“Oh.”

“Has your discomfort towards fire been this strong all summer?”

Harry didn’t think it was fair of Snape to change the subject so suddenly and glowered. “Not really. I hadn’t Flooed until going to the Weasley’s. That was bad, but coming back was even worse, I guess because the first time I didn’t have time to process what the fire would mean.”

“Have you had any other negative repercussions? Nightmares, flashbacks, that sort of thing.”

Harry thought of his bad days when he couldn’t talk to anyone without wanting to cry, and of the times when he would zone out and go somewhere… else… for hours at a time until someone snapped him out of it, and how he couldn’t drink his tea until it had cooled down to a reasonable warmth anymore or else he’d start to panic about burning from the inside out. He thought about his dreams where his forest was still on fire and Voldemort was laughing, laughing, laughing. He thought about how hard he knew it was on Aberforth to deal with his mood swings, his silences, his anxiety attacks.

“No, not really,” he said. “I’m pretty fine in general.”

Snape cocked an eyebrow but just said, “Very well. Everything is okay with Aberforth?”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

“Then I will see you in a month.” Snape stood and moved to the door.

“That’s it? That’s all you had, sir?”

“Was that not enough, Potter? Would you prefer I riddled you on your potions essay for the next hour, or reprimanded you for not immediately notifying me of your disturbing dreams? I do not believe I have anything else to say, unless there is something you require.”

“No, sir,” Harry muttered, scowling at the floor. “See you at Hogwarts.”

Snape opened his mouth as if to say something else, then closed it as if changing his mind. Nodding his head, he left the room, closing the back door softly behind him. Harry groaned and flopped down on the sofa, stretching his legs out over the side and shifting his gaze to the ceiling. Why was everything with Snape so bloody complicated?


	3. Chapter 3

Aberforth came up the stairs to find Harry making curry. He scarfed it down, highly appreciative of how much better the boy’s cooking was compared to his own. Over dinner—he wasn’t sure it could technically be called that at near one in the morning, but oh well—he riddled Harry over what had happened at the World Cup, letting the boy say what he wanted and not pushing him on the rest. For the most part, he talked about his friends and meeting Ron’s older brothers, ignoring the huge topic of fucking death eaters.

Eventually, though, he said, “Snape was a death eater, right?”

“Was, is, might be. Hard to know with that man, but yeah, he’s got the dark mark.”

Harry bit his lip and looked out the window. The moon was gone, as were the stars, hidden behind the thick fog rolling in.

“How come Dumbled—your brother trusts him so much? When did he switch over? Why did he leave?”

“Albus doesn’t tell me much, kid,” Aberforth said, “It’s probably better to ask Snape ‘imself, in’t it?”

“I mean, yeah, but…”

“He’s not exactly the talkin’ sort either, is he?”

“No.” Harry rolled his eyes, and Aberforth grinned.

“Are you worried about trusting him?”

“Not exactly. He’s been pretty alright. Better than most adults, I guess. I even sort of like him—which is the problem. I sort of liked Voldemort, too, didn’t I? How’m I supposed to trust my own feelings?”

Aberforth sighed. How do you teach a kid who’s only ever been hurt by adults how to find the right ones to trust?

“I don’t blame you for being wary, but I think Snape’s a decent sort. I knew ‘im when he was still with Voldemort—or at least knew some of what he did. He’s not like that anymore. Something scared him straight, sorted him out, and now… I trust him. I don’t love ‘im; he’s still a right bastard sometimes, but I reckon he’s doing ‘is best. Like me. Like you.”

Harry nodded slowly. Why did it always fall to Aberforth to give the kid the long emotional speeches?

“Do you think he knew Peter Pettigrew?”

“Who?”

“He’s the guy who, who betrayed my parents. The one that everyone thought Sirius killed. He must’ve joined the death eaters the same time as Snape, I think.”

“Naw, I dunno about that,” Aberforth mused, “But he would’ve known Regulus better—Sirius’s brother. He was just a year or two below ‘im in Slytherin, I think.”

“Yeah, he said he knew him.” The boy didn’t speak for a while, then, and seemed to be thinking hard about something; not one to push, Aberforth just let him sit with it until he was ready. He hadn’t had this many complicated conversations since… well, ever, really. He was never one for emotional vulnerability or anything, and it was starting to wear on him.

Harry seemed to be reading his mind.

“Aberforth?” His voice was tentative, his eyes cast down in his typical show of anxiety. “Can I ask something?”

Aberforth nodded, wary of what was coming next.

“Well, it’s just, I’ve really appreciated everything you’ve done this summer. I know I showed up on your doorstep in pain, and you just kind of had to take me in. We didn’t give you much of a choice, and you weren’t prepared to just keep me for months and months, and you probably didn’t want to, and—”

“Oi,” Aberforth said. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Potter. I was and still am happy to have you here.”

“Right,” Harry said, head still cast down. “Sorry. I just… it’s hard. To remember that people… that people want me around.”

Aberforth felt struck through by the boy’s words, caught in a mix of pity and admiration for all Harry had lived through as well as a striking resonance to what he had said. Was that not what Aberforth struggled with, too? Why else did he hide away for so long, avoid anyone who seemed to want more than a casual chat across a bar?

He sighed and rubbed his palm across his face. “What did you want to ask?”

“It’s just, I know I won’t stay here during school, obviously, and if they find the Dursleys, I’ll have to live with them again next summer. Or go somewhere else, I guess. But…” The boy fiddled with the buttons on his flannel, fingers quick and nervous. “Canwestillbefriends?”

“What?”

“C-can we still… be friends? Can I still come visit, and pet Merry and Pippin, and maybe even hang out sometimes?”

“Of course, Harry,” Aberforth said, shocked at how much effort it had taken him to ask the question. “That’s not a question at all—you’re always welcome here. And you’re _never,_ never ever, no matter what, going back to the Dursleys. D’you hear me?”

Harry nodded and swallowed loudly. “I know that’s what you say, and Snape says too. But I think… Professor Dumbledore manipulated me into going back last time. He kept saying I was possessed, saying I was in danger, saying I would hurt everyone, and that’s what made me go back, even though I was terrified to see them again. Even though you and Snape were being so nice and trying to stop me from leaving, he convinced me to go back. I’m scared he’ll do it again.”

“Don’t you worry about my brother,” Aberforth growled. “Snape and I'll sort him proper if he ever tries something like that again. B’sides, I reckon our conversation after the fire straightened ‘im out, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered. “He was… better, I guess. Seemed sad and shocked by what had happened, at least, and he didn’t fight too hard to let you keep me. He’s stayed out of it this summer for the most part, which is good. I just don’t know what to expect from him.”

“No one’s a flat person, you know? We’ve all got all sorts of stuff mixed up inside us. Albus has made a lot of mistakes in his life, and he’s gonna keep making them until he dies. But I think he’s trying his best, doing what he thinks is right, to take care of you and Hogwarts and the rest of the world. He’s just got a habit of making stupid decisions that muck things up for people that aren’t hisself.”

Harry gave a wan smile. “Anyway, it’s not really about him. I just wanted to make sure you were okay with… with seeing me again.”

“Always, Harry,” Aberforth said firmly. “My back door’s always open to you if you need—or want—to come visit. I know… I know I’m not the best guardian. I’m too old an’ grumpy an’ antisocial to give you the proper home you deserve, but I’ve tried my best. It’s been good havin’ you here, for more reasons than just your cooking and gardening skills. You’ve helped me out a lot, Harry, and I won’t ever turn you away. But… but we both know this can’t be permanent.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Harry, I really am. You deserve better than what I can give you. You’re still—you’ve still got all that bad stuff in your head, all the anxiety and nightmares and whatnot that I dunno how to fix, and that can’t go on. You need someone or some way to help cope with that, and I’m not it.”

“I know,” the boy said, words barely audible. “I know I’m fucked up.”

“You’re not!”

Harry flinched back at the force of Aberforth’s words, and the man instantly regretted it; he hadn’t meant to scare him, but the way Harry thought about himself genuinely scared him.

“You’re not messed up,” he said, more softly this time. “You’ve just been through shit. That’s why I can’t be the person you rely on, Harry, cuz I dunno how to talk about this without scaring or hurting you. There’s nothing wrong with you—you just need help.”

Harry nodded, back to not talking.

“I’m sorry,” Aberforth said, reaching a hand across the table. Harry took it timidly, fingers stretching across his palm, and Aberforth squeezed tightly, trying to put all the words he couldn’t say into that one action. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry I’m not able to help you. Merry and Pippin and I can only do so much. But we all lo—we’re all here for you, no matter what. Even if it’s just to yell about Snape, you are always welcome. _Especially_ if it’s to yell about Snape.”

Harry let out a strangled laugh, and Aberforth relaxed minutely.

“Thank you, Aberforth,” the boy said, and Aberforth squeezed his hand once more before pulling back.

“God, it’s late,” he said, stretching and covering a massive yawn. “Definitely past your bedtime, kiddo. I’ll get the dishes—head on down to bed.”

“Yes, Aberforth.” The boy smiled and waved dopily before turning from the table and heading down the hallway to his bedroom.

“Good night, Harry,” Aberforth said quietly as he collected the plates. “Sleep well.”

↠

The last weeks of summer flew by, and before he knew it, Harry was packing his trunk to take to Hogwarts. His clothes, books, and clutter had somehow made their way into every room of the house and it took him a few days to collect everything.

“If you forget somethin’ then you can just come down and get it,” Aberforth reassured him. “That room’s still yours, as long as you need it.”

Along with his old stuff, Harry was packing some things Aberforth had given him, too, like the Indian cookbooks and a tea set that he could use whenever he wanted, rather than relying on the Great Hall. Harry also snipped some leaves and flowers off all his favorite plants and pressed them in between the pages of his journal so he could remember the garden, and coaxed Merry and Pippin to walk over other pages with muddy hooves so he could remember them, too.

It was hard to leave the Hog’s Head, but he was ready. If he was honest, he was getting a little bored. Though he loved Aberforth and loved getting to know all the regulars at the pub, he missed talking to people his own age. He missed running to classes, joking around in the common room, sneaking around after curfew… he missed Hogwarts.

He’d talked with Aberforth and they’d decided he wouldn’t bother going back to London just to take the Hogwarts Express. As much fun as it was to ride with his friends, he wasn’t too enthusiastic at the prospect of Flooing again, and it would be easier to just meet them during the feast.

For Harry’s last night, Aberforth closed the pub early and took him hiking. They found their way back to the pond they’d stayed at the first time and as the stars twinkled overhead, they dove out into the dark, rippling water. After a while of chasing and splashing around, they floated on their backs and stared up at the wide expanse of sky above them.

“I’m worried Voldemort will come back and hurt me again,” Harry said as he huddled around a small fire, drip-drying and sipping cocoa. “I wish he would talk to me again like he used to—at least then I’d know what to expect.”

“Tha’s stupid.”

“I know,” Harry said, rolling his eyes in exaggeration. “I do listen to what you and Snape say, honestly.”

Aberforth flicked water off his fingertips at Harry, who shrieked in faux horror.

“Snape’ll keep an eye out for you. I reckon the school’s gonna be too busy to worry too much about Voldemort, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I weren’t supposed to tell, but as a going away present… You heard of the Triwizard Tournament?”

Aberforth explained the history of the tournament and the danger, adventure, and celebrity that came with it. Harry was amazed that Hogwarts was going to host it despite all the people that had died before.

“They’ll have more pr’cautions in place this time ‘round,” Aberforth said, “But I did hear rumors of dragons from Charlie Weasley and his mates.”

“That’s what Charlie meant!” Excitedly, Harry explained the hints the older Weasley brother had given about seeing them again sooner than they thought. A thrill jumped through his heart as he thought of seeing the dragon keeper again, and he blushed in the firelight.

“Mind you don’t tell no one else. Albus’ll be telling the school tomorrow, I imagine, but the tasks are meant to be real hush-hush.”

“Too bad you told me, then.” Harry stuck out his tongue, and Aberforth threw a marshmallow at his head.

It was then that the little snake decided to make its move. The sound of leaves crackling and moving had both Harry and Aberforth whipping their heads around to find the intruder. She had been watching the pair of wizards for a while now, after they had so rudely interrupted her evening sojourn through the water with their screams and shouts. Now, they were both pointing sticks in her direction, looking angry.

“ _Peace,_ ” she hissed, “ _I am not here to harm you_.” Slowly, she continued to wind her way out of the weeds she had been hiding in, and she felt a flash of pride that they had not noticed her for so long. Her scales, all black except for those on her head, which were a light gray, shone delicately in the pale light, and she allowed herself a moment to enjoy her dramatic appearance.

The old one with the white hair looked relieved that the source of their fright had only been a small water snake, but the young, wild looking one continued to point his stick at the snake and glare.

“ _What do you want with us?_ ” the young one asked, and both the snake and the old one were surprised to hear him talk in snake’s tongue.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

“This snake is talking to me,” the young one said irritably in the language the snake could understand but not speak. “I don’t trust it.”

The snake was annoyed. The first think she had said was that she wouldn’t harm the men!

“ _I do not like to repeat myself,_ ” the snake hissed. “ _You are the ones who disturbed my home._ ”

The young one looked about to speak angrily, but then paused. “The snake is mad that we’re in its territory,” he told the old one. “Should we leave?”

“It’s jus’ a snake,” the old one said, tossing another log into the flames, making them spark and flare. The snake hissed and jerked its head back away from the fire. She appreciated its heat but not the way it moved so recklessly. “I don’t reckon it has much say over us.”

“ _My friend says that we are allowed to stay here._ ”

“ _I know what he said, young one, and it was not as polite as you say it._ ”

“ _You understand English? Is that normal?_ ” The boy was surprised, eyes wide and dancing in the fire.

“ _I do not know if it is normal—we do not meet many humans here._ ”

The old one asked what was happening and narrowed his eyes as the boy relayed that the snake could understand English. “I don’t think tha’s normal,” he said. “Might be Dark or cursed.”

“ _I cannot help what I can do anymore than you can,_ ” the snake hissed to the boy angrily. “ _Had I known you were so prejudiced, I would not have spoken._ ”

The boy looked apologetic, but only asked, “ _Why_ did _you speak?_ ”

“ _Your magic called to me._ ”

“ _My magic?_ ”

“ _Yes. Your spirit is slippery and venomous—it resonates inside me. This forest is full of magic, but I have never felt as complete as I do with yours._ ”

The boy talked to the old one, and the snake wished that she could simply talk in the human’s tongue. Things would be much easier if they all understood each other; instead, she had to wait through their translation and discussion.

“You’d have to ask Snape or somethin’ about snake magic; I dunno this stuff,” the old one said, shaking his head. He seemed to accept that she was not a threat, though, and resumed stabbing white, fluffy clouds onto sticks and hanging them above the flames. A torturous death—the snake felt pity for the creatures being burned alive.

“ _What do you mean by complete?_ ”

“ _There are two people inside of you, yes? Two sides to your soul. I am the same. I am a snake, yes, but I am also… other. Something that does not have words but is still a part of me. Something that reaches for you. We are the same._ ”

It was not strictly possible for one to _er_ and _um_ in snake’s tongue, but somehow the boy managed to stutter through his hesitations nonetheless. He settled for silence in the end, not speaking his thoughts.

“ _I watched you the last time you visited this pool,_ ” the snake said, drawing nearer to the boy. She settled at his feet, waiting for him to initiate touch; she was very good at being patient. “ _I watched you slide through the water and play with your friend, and I was drawn to you. I sense an urgency to this night. If you permit me, I would like to travel away from here with you, to speak with you for days and nights and moons and suns._ ”

After a quick translation, the man said, “Like a familiar?” The snake bobbed her head up and down, tongue flicking into the air.

“ _Will you hurt anyone?_ ”

“ _I have no venom, and I do not bite unless you are a tasty frog or fish for me to eat._ ”

The boy laughed, and the snake hissed its pleasure.

“I suppose it’s no harm for now, is it?” he asked his older one, who merely grunted in response. “ _You’re not allowed to cause any trouble—I get in enough already as it is. My name is Harry._ ”

“ _Well met, Harry."_

_"Do you... ah, do you name a name?"_

_"Snakes do not carry names like you. You may name me, if you wish."_

Harry hummed in thought and peered around, looking for inspiration. 

_"How about Nettles?"_ he asked. _"They are beautiful, but can sting."_

 _"This is a good name,"_ the snake said. " _Thank you."_

Harry smiled, and extended his arm down to the ground for her. Happily, she slithered across his hand and up to his shoulder—his arm was the perfect length for her body.

“ _What now?_ ”

“ _I am still reliant on myself, young one. You do not need to care for me—talk, and play, and sleep, and I will be there when you wake._ ”

“ _Okay,_ ” the boy said, and she coiled loosely around his neck, flicking her tail across his cheek before settling down. Already, her spirit felt more whole, more complete than it had ever felt before. She had found her match; she was at peace.

↠

Snape generally loathed the Welcome Feast—terrified eleven-year-olds and hormonal teenagers all overexcited and noisy weren’t usually his forte. This year’s feast was even more complicated.

Not only did he need to keep a close eye on his Slytherins—as always—but he’d also be paying close attention to Harry and Draco, both of whom were bound to struggle this year. Not only that, but with the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament, all of the students were bound to be overeager and energetic, making his job all the more difficult—and once the other schools arrived, Snape wouldn’t have a moment’s rest until the end of the year. He just prayed that it would all go as smoothly as possible and that no one would die or be horribly maimed by whatever ludicrous tasks Dumbledore and the other headmasters had set up.

Snape had met with Dumbledore morning to go over his term plans and general policy updates. It had been hard to maintain a professional, indifferent face throughout their meeting given everything that had changed since they’d met with Harry and Aberforth at the end of May.

The news that Harry was a horcrux was awful enough, but to learn that Dumbledore had suspected it since his second year and not told anyone was even worse. He had willfully put Harry in danger time and time again, had deliberately kept information away from the boy and from the people around him, had consciously isolated and damaged him all in the guise of doing what he thought was best. And Snape couldn’t even loathe him as thoroughly and completely as he wanted to because he understood—understood that Dumbledore was terrified of the Dark Lord’s return, understood that Dumbledore simply didn’t have the capacity to appreciate a child’s life for what it was, understood that Dumbledore genuinely thought he was making the best decisions, thought that he had no alternatives.

He hated the way Dumbledore had manipulated Harry into believing he was evil, believing he was toxic and dangerous because of his connection to Voldemort. When he learned of why Harry had agreed to return to the Dursleys in the first place—because Dumbledore convinced him his rage and anger were a result of possession—Snape’s fury had been a vicious flame, a well-stoked fire he was prepared to unleash on the old man. But then, in the middle of yelling and berating the man for everything he’d ever done, he’d realized that Dumbledore didn’t have the capacity to understand.

Something had happened to the man, something he refused to talk about to anyone, something that made thoughts of anger or vindictiveness or revenge abhorrent to him. Dumbledore believed that the concept of anger was inherently evil and placed those beliefs onto Harry himself.

It was one big fucking mess, and it was times like this that Snape desperately wished the wizarding world was more familiar with therapy and counseling. How do you explain simple emotions to a century-old man? How do you rectify the damage he’d done to a child?

Since their conversation with Harry—wherein Dumbledore had finally admitted he was a horcrux, allowed Aberforth to watch him for the summer, and grudgingly apologized for his awful decision-making—Snape and Dumbledore had been at odds. Snape wasn’t sure how to treat the man. He couldn’t outright disobey or abandon him; no, the headmaster had done too much for him in the past for him to reject his help. Further, with the looming return of the Dark Lord and Snape’s precarious position in the sights of the Ministry, it would be too dangerous to find a new job outside of Hogwarts or abandon his post as a ‘secret agent’ for the Dark. But he could no longer blindly trust the man, could no longer follow behind him in silence and ignore his mistakes and character faults.

So, not only would he be watching three schools’ worth of students, the boy who lived, and an emotionally-conflicted would-be death eater, but he would be watching Dumbledore, too, to ensure he didn’t make any absolutely horrendous choices for the future of the wizarding world.

Joy upon joy, Snape thought as he took a drink from his goblet, surveying the Great Hall. He spotted Harry with a pack of Weasleys, Granger, and Longbottom at the Gryffindor table. Draco, on the other hand, was sitting slightly away from his peers, looking down morosely at his plate and stabbing his peas. Even at the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament, the Slytherin refused to look up from his food, face blank and stony. Snape sighed.

“How are you, Severus?”

He sighed again, loud and breathy, and Lupin chuckled. “That good?”

“Eloquent as always, Lupin,” Snape said. Working with the scarred Gryffindor for a second year was not as abhorrent as it would have been a year before, but that didn’t mean he had to look forward to it. Since the werewolf had apologized to Harry and made an earnest effort to get to know him, Snape’s opinion of him had improved slightly, but not enough to make open conversation enticing.

“Thank you, I try,” Lupin said, smiling. “He looks well.”

Snape followed his eyes to Harry, who was laughing at something the Weasley girl had just said. Snape’s face—which had been tense and stiff—relaxed and smoothed itself out, eyes soft and mouth quirked as he watched the boy gesture animatedly, swinging his hands this way and that. “Yes,” he said, voice a degree warmer than it normally would have been, “he seems happy to have his friends once more.”

“Just like Si—my partner. He’s always happier, safer, more complete when he has his friends. They’re important.”

“Hmm,” Snape said noncommittally. “I suppose.”

“Listen, could I meet with you soon? Perhaps this weekend? I have some things I’d like to discuss, if that’s alright.”

Snape stared Lupin down, probing for any information on what the werewolf wanted. His face was clear of anything but earnestness—typical. “Friday evening. My office.”

“Thank you, Severus,” Lupin said, relieved. Snape rolled his eyes and went back to watching Draco, who was now playing with what used to be tiramisu but now looked like a pile of mash. One of his friends, the Parkinson girl, had tried to talk to him but he’d ignored her completely, and she was shooting him dirty looks every so often—which he ignored too, of course. Teenagers.

↠

Luna was relieved to see Harry red-cheeked and smiling at the Gryffindor table. It was nice he had so many friends. She tried not to feel bad that he wasn’t always with her—but sometimes she let the wistful jealousy seep through her. Just for a moment, so she could indulge in self-pity. It was moments like these, watching Harry laugh with Ron and Hermione and Ginny—her Ginny—that she felt most alone. If only she had been braver, she could have been sorted into Gryffindor and had proper friends like them.

Instead, she had to sit quietly through the taunts and jeers her peers through at her, had to suffer through being disliked and mocked by everyone she lived with.

Although, really, it wasn’t as if Ravenclaw was by nature a hateful group. They were kind to most people unless they’d done something truly evil, like when they thought Harry was the heir of Slytherin or whatever. It couldn’t be their fault they were mean to her. No—it had to be something she’d done, something inside her that made everything so hard.

She knew she wasn’t normal. Even though she was surrounded by wixen, few people believed in everything that she did. They thought she and her family were odd and crazy for the things her father published in his magazine. They couldn’t see what they did.

And that she was trans… well, it certainly didn’t help things. The school had known she was a girl before she was a first year—her letter had been addressed to her proper name, after all—but her peers didn’t understand quite so quickly. Some of the girls in her year had thrown a fit that she was rooming with them. Some of the boys had tried to force her up into their dorm, but the stairs had rejected her. No matter what they tried, she physically couldn’t enter the boy’s dorms. It was a relief for her and further incentive for the bullies to hurt her—she was a freak.

This was Luna’s third year and even though she had known based on the last two years that living with the Ravenclaws wouldn’t be fun, for some reason her hopes had still been high before the Feast. The Hogwarts Express had been fun as she’d been safe with Ginny and her friends, but now that she was at the table… one platter of food spilled in her lap was an accident, but three? Lovegoods didn’t believe in coincidences.

Her appetite disappeared well before pudding, and she pushed her food around, looking miserably across the room. Harry was still talking happily with his friends—his _real_ friends, her mind added unhelpfully—and didn’t notice her staring over at him. She forced her gaze past him to the Slytherin table, where Draco Malfoy sat looking… well, looking as miserable as she was.

They’d talked a few times last year, after Harry had disappeared. It had been so lonely without him, and Ginny and Draco had been her main saviors. Not that Draco would admit to doing anything, of course. But she knew that he hadn’t just “happened to come along” the day some older girls had been pushing her around after Defense, scaring them off with idle threats and then walking her to her next class. He had helped her, and even if he refused to admit that he was a nice person, she knew it anyway.

He looked sad, and lonely, and desperate just like her. Luna frowned. She’d had to fix that. Once again, she wished furiously that the houses didn’t exist, that people could sit wherever and talk to whoever they wanted. It wasn’t fair.

But then again, she thought as a fourth-year boy leaned over and knocked her drink into her lap, maybe it was. Maybe she just wasn’t strong enough to handle what she deserved.

↠

By the time he made it up to his dorm, Harry was completely wiped out.

He flopped wearily on his bed, ignoring the slight tremors in his legs from the tension he’d been holding in all night.

Nettles slithered from his insulated—and magically-expanded—knapsack and up his chest. Harry quickly drew the curtains around his bed and cast a silencing spell. He knew he’d have to tell his friends about his new companion soon, but for now he was far happier to keep her a secret.

“ _Why do you hurt yourself like this?_ ”

“ _What do you mean?_ ”

 _“Do not spend all your energy. You should conserve it and keep your body warm._ ”

Harry laughed softly. “ _It’s not that simple. I wanted my friends to be happy, so I stayed happy too. I can rest later._ ”

It had been hell to keep up a facade of happiness and ease during the feast. He hadn’t been surrounded by that many people in a long time and even though his times with Aberforth and at the World Cup had greatly helped re-expose him to socializing, his anxiety was still on high alert the whole time. To have so many people moving and yelling and clamoring in one room set his nerves on fire—another thing he didn’t want to talk about. The Great Hall was lined with fireplaces and floating candles and though they were all benign, safe sources of light and heat, Harry could barely handle being surrounded by the flickering energy. He had been sweaty and shaky the whole time, only containing himself through a combination of occlumency, meditation, and intense focus on Ron and Hermione. If he hadn’t them to distract him, he would have had an anxiety attack within the first few minutes of sitting down.

“ _Sleep now,_ ” Nettles hissed, sliding onto his pillow and up the wall to look out the window. “ _It will help._ ”

Harry sighed. Of course, his snake would be just as mothering as everyone else in his life. “ _Sometimes it doesn’t,_ ” he admitted. “ _Sometimes it makes things worse when I don’t have good dreams._ ”

“ _My dreams are always good. Just dream of chasing foods and lying in the sun—you will be happy and warm._ ”

“ _Thank you for the suggestion,_ ” Harry said, gently running a finger down her scales. “ _I’ll try that._ ”

Nettles bobbed her head in such a pompous, knowing manner that it reminded him of Percy. She slithered back into the knapsack. Aberforth—and a few books from the library on animal safekeeping—had helped him expand one of the pockets into a large terrarium with heating charms and critters for Nettles to eat. Harry had told her she was free to wander through the forest, as well, but she seemed reluctant to leave him. When he asked why, she couldn’t say, only that she felt empty and strange without him. He didn’t mind her constant presence but knew that he should start researching animal bonds soon—this was a little weird.

It was going to be an interesting year, that was for sure. Ron and Hermione had been excited to talk about the Triwizard Tournament and jealous that Harry had known about it before them. They were also excited to have classes with Lupin in defense again; it had been good to see the wan, scar-strewn man at the faculty table next to Snape.

Harry felt a rush of anxiety at the thought of Snape’s classes, though. He still didn’t know how to feel about the man and didn’t understand why it was so complicated. He was just another professor—if he could be excited about class with Lupin, why not Snape, too? What was that weird tightness in his gut whenever he thought about being in the same room as him? Why did it feel like he’d be sick just thinking about it?

Frustrated, Harry rolled over and pulled his covers up. There was no use worrying about anything anymore. Nettles was right—sleep was a far better alternative.


	4. Chapter 4

“Do not disappoint me, Lucius.”

“M-my lord, I would not, I would never, I—”

“I grow weary of your feeble mewls. Send in the rat.”

Lucius stumbled from where he knelt and hurried to the edge of the room, tapping a bookshelf to open a well-hidden servant’s entrance to the manor library. From the small, shadowed entrance scurried a short, balding man. His eyes darted from corner to corner, sweeping the room, as he made his way to his master and knelt before him.

“My lord,” he squeaked. “You wished to see me?”

“Yes,” his master hissed. “Tell me, where is old Barty these days?”

“Sir, he is contained. He is being held, as you desired.”

“I have changed my mind. Kill him.”

“My lord?”

“We have no use for him any longer. His mind is beyond sanity. Even under the Imperio, he would not be a trustworthy tool—the potential for breakage is too severe. Get rid of him for me.”

“I—yes, my lord, of course. What should I tell the boy?”

His master laughed, hissing and mirthless. “Invite him to join. He will be pleased to see the last moments of his father’s miserable existence; he may even wish to cast the final blow. You may divide the pleasure as you see fit.”

The balding man jerked his head up and down and bowed before turning quickly and retreating to the safety of the shadows. His master sighed contentedly and looked at Lucius, who was waiting against the wall, trembling.

“It is all coming together, my faithful servant,” Lord Voldemort said.

Lucius nodded and murmured his congratulation. “Your plans are truly masterful,” he whispered.

“I shall not prevent you from enjoying the entertainment this evening. Go on, follow Wormtail to his task. Make sure he inflicts enough damage worthy of your Lord. Savor the bloodlust—more will arrive soon.

“Yes, my lord,” Lucius breathed shallowly, and spun from the room in his haste. His master laughed and called Nagini towards his chair. Spit fell from his mouth as he hissed to her. She coiled possessively around his chair and slid up the edge to his face.

“ _Master,_ ” Nagini said. “ _Wake up._ ”

↠

“ _What?_ ”

“ _You are late for class. The other boys are stirring. Wake up._ ”

Harry blinked against the sunlight streaming in from his window. Reaching for his glasses, he blearily rose to consciousness. Nettles was curled next to him, urging him to wake up, but she slid beneath his covers as his bedcurtains were pushed back.

“Wake up, mate—we’re going to be late for breakfast.” Ron’s freckly face peeked from between the curtains, his eyes bright with sleep. He was in the process of pulling his clothes on, hair still sticking up haphazardly.

“Five more minutes.”

“Nah, come on. Everyone else is already down; we’re gonna be the last ones and Hermione’ll eat our heads if we miss getting our schedules.”

Groaning, Harry rolled out of the bed—careful not to squeeze Nettles—and got dressed as quickly as he could. His dream fell from his memory.

At breakfast—after Hermione had berated them for being late—Ron nudged Harry in the side.

“Malfoy’s watching you,” he said darkly, glaring daggers at the Slytherin table.

Draco met Harry’s eyes for a moment and rapidly turned away. Harry frowned; he was sitting alone again, like the night before.

“That’s weird,” Harry said dispassionately. He _was_ interested, but for different reasons than Ron: he couldn’t stop thinking about what Draco had said at the World Cup. Was he okay? Harry knew he wasn’t supposed to talk to Draco, but he didn’t like the idea of ignoring someone who needed help.

“You know, Harry,” Hermione said, looking at him like he was a specimen of some sort. “Your voice has gotten much higher over the summer.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “What?” Now that she’d said it, he flinched at the way his voice sounded. It squeaked in his throat, high-pitched and breathy. “Really?”

“Yeah, Hermione’s right,” Ron said casually, turning from Malfoy and digging into his food. “Or maybe we just didn’t notice as much before because we didn’t know. But now that we do, well… it’s kind of obvious.”

Harry dropped his fork and shoved his hands underneath his legs to stop them from shaking. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. He wanted to respond, to say something, but the thought of speaking and sounding like, like a _girl_ terrified him. Everyone already knew he was trans, but would they be able to see through him now? Would they stop calling him a boy, stop using the right pronouns? Would he lose everything he’d had? These worries had stopped over the last few months, but back in the Great Hall everything was amplified again.

“Ron!” Hermione hissed. “Be nice—you can’t just say stuff like that.” She looked worriedly at Harry, whose tremors were wracking his whole body now. “Harry, Harry, it’s okay,” she said gently. “It’s not that noticeable; he didn’t mean anything bad by it.” She tried to reach for Harry’s arm, but he flinched away from her.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron said. “Please don’t be upset, I really didn’t think it would mean this much to you.” His face was stricken with the realization he’d said something stupid _again._

Harry, breathing fast and trying to regain some semblance of composure, stood from the table. “It’s okay,” he whispered, daring his voice to remain level and _low._ “I’ll meet you guys in potions, okay?”

Without waiting for their response, he ran from the hall. As he tried to squeeze his way through the busy entrance, he smacked into someone, falling backwards to the ground.

“Hey, Potter, you alright?” A tanned arm stretched out to him, and he accepted the firm hand gratefully. Looking up, he saw he’d collided into Cedric Diggory, the tall Hufflepuff seeker he’d met on their way to the World Cup.

“Sorry, wasn’t looking where I was going.” He met Cedric’s blue, flinty eyes, and squirmed under the intense look the older boy was giving him. God, he wanted nothing more than to disappear. “Sorry,” he said again, and spun away towards the library, desperate for a respite.

Harry got to his favorite table in the back of the library and slumped into a chair, throwing his bag down next to him. Classes hadn’t even started, and he was already miserable. What a great fucking start to the year.

Still lightheaded and nauseous, Harry tried to filter through his coping skills. He wasn’t sure what to do, and the panic was overriding everything—he couldn’t survive if everyone around him saw him as a girl. He’d rather die.

Hands still trembling, he reached for a piece of parchment and quill.

 _Dear Aberforth,_ he wrote.

_I’m sorry for writing so soon into the semester. I don’t want to bother you._

_Ron and Hermione say I sound like a girl to them now, even though I didn’t before. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want everyone to act like I’m a girl. I’m terrified to be around people, to speak knowing they’ll be judging every word I say. What should I do???_

_I miss you, and Merry, and Pippin._

_I hope you’re all doing okay,_

_Harry_

He could breathe easier after he wrote it down. He knew he was overreacting and being stupid, but the fear wouldn’t leave him easily. He remembered Hermione’s muggle books she’d sent him over the summer, the ones on hormones and injections and surgeries and all sorts of scary things. Did wizards have any safer alternatives? He wished, hope beyond hope, that there was some magic potion that could transform his body. There was Polyjuice, but he didn’t want to look like someone else; he wanted to look like _Harry Potter,_ just the Harry Potter he should’ve been. Not a messed-up freak.

In his head, Harry heard several voices reprimanding him, telling him he wasn’t a freak, but others encouraged him. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia were loudest of all, reminding him of how much he’d fucked up just by being alive. Groaning, he knocked his head against the table, thudding it several times until he gave up and just laid down, eyes closed.

“Didn’t sleep well, Potter?”

Draco slipped neatly into the seat next to Harry, looking him up and down with narrowed eyes.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, jerking his head off the table. He tried to keep his tone neutral. “What do you want?”

“We’re older than we used to be,” Draco said, “And much more mature. We aren’t stupid firsties like when we first met. I’d like to formally apologize for my bad behavior and, well, try again. I think you’re alright for a Gryffindor, and I’d rather be friends than enemies.” He stuck his hand out and looked at Harry expectantly.

Harry swallowed, unsure of what he was supposed to do. He searched Draco’s face questioningly but found no answers. Tentatively, he stretched out his hand and met Draco’s, shaking it.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Harry said. “I’d like that, too, I think.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but Harry had to hold back a gasp. In his palm was now what felt like a wad of folded parchment. Doing his best to hold it in his palm, he slipped it into his pocket and nodded levelly at the Slytherin. “What’s your first class?”

“Potions, too,” Draco said. “Slytherins and Gryffindors together, remember?”

“Oh, right.” Harry shook his head, feeling stupid. “Well, I’ll see you then, I guess.”

The Slytherin merely blinked at Harry, grey eyes revealing nothing, and then left. Harry waited a few minutes before grabbing the piece of parchment and unwrapping it.

 _Potter,_ it read.

 _You’re so stupid—I told you_ not _to be my friend. Stop fucking things up._

_People are watching me this year, so you can’t be as oblivious and ditty as you normally are. I’m going to try to befriend you, and you aren’t allowed to let me. Don’t shove me away entirely—they have to see that I’m trying. Otherwise, this won’t work. Just don’t tell me anything. Don’t let me get close._

_You’re so fucking stupid._

_—Draco_

As soon as Harry finished reading, the letters blurred and rearranged into a sketch of a chessboard. All the pawns on both sides were attacking their kings.

↠

Snape ignored Harry all class, not sparing even an insult for his shoddy potion—it was sludgy and smelled like boiled cabbage. Harry tried to catch his eye, tried to glean some secret understanding of how he was supposed to act around his professor, but no hints were forthcoming. Frowning, he resolved to keep his head down around Snape and keep to himself. If Snape wanted to talk to him or explain why he was ignoring him, he could, but otherwise Harry didn’t want anything to do with the professor.

The rest of his classes were fine, though Harry’s anxiety had wrapped itself around him like a straitjacket. No matter where he was, paranoia followed: was his voice too high? Were his compression charms working? Was he crossing his legs too much? Was his face too soft, were his hands too small, was he supposed to have facial hair by now, was his deodorant too floral, was he holding his shoulders the wrong way? Did they hate him, did they mock him, did they point and laugh behind his back? Was he just a joke now?

Harry found himself withdrawing from classes, not speaking unless called upon, not making eye contact with anyone for fear they’d see something in his face, something feminine and distinctly _not boy._ He did his homework and spent more time in the library than ever but kept to himself as much as possible in the classroom. Ron and Hermione drifted away _again,_ and it wasn’t their fault this time either. It was always his fault. He was too stupid, too fucked up, too messy for them to deal with, and he didn’t blame them if they didn’t want to hang around him. They couldn’t even remember him properly anyway, but why would they want to? He was nothing.

“Harry, can I talk to you after class?”

Harry jumped, jolted from his daydreaming in the Defense classroom. His seat by the window allowed for a perfect escape into the clouds beyond the forest, but now Lupin’s eyes were intent on him and he had no choice but to re-center his attention and nod submissively. As everyone else began packing up to leave, he made his way up to the front of the class, where Lupin stood sorting through the assignments they’d just turned in.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh,” Harry said, caught off guard. He’d been expecting a reprimand for his inattention, not a query as to his health. “Er, yeah, I’m fine, Professor Lupin.”

“Harry,” Lupin said gently, “You know you can call me Remus when the others aren’t around.”

Harry flushed. Somehow he’d forgotten, and his mind had reverted to treating his professor just like all the others. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s okay,” Remus said, and reached to clasp his shoulder. Unconsciously, Harry recoiled, and Remus’ hand retreated just as quickly. “I’m worried about you, Harry. Is there anything you need to talk about?”

“Er, no, Remus, I’m okay. I just—no, I’m fine. Thank you.” Internally, Harry was yelling at himself for his stupid reaction to Remus. Why did he flinch? Why couldn’t he just act like a normal person for once?

Though Harry’s eyes were cast to the ground, he could feel Remus staring at him for an uncomfortably long time. He shifted from foot to foot. “I should get to class,” he said, looking back to where his bag and books were.

“Of course, Harry. Listen, I don’t want to push you, but if—well, if you’re comfortable, I’d love to have another dinner with you at some point. Maybe on a weekend? Professor Dumbledore gave me special permission to have a pet in my quarters; I know you’re fond of dogs. His name is Padfoot, and I think he’d love to meet you.”

Harry met Remus’ eyes and smiled. The muscles felt tight and unused around his lips, as if he hadn’t smiled in a while—when was the last time? Had it been since the Welcome Feast?

“That would be lovely,” he said softly, and Remus returned his smile cheerily. His professor’s eyes were still watchful and concerned, though, and Harry realized he’d have at least one person watching out for him this year. It felt a bit oppressive, but sort of nice, too. He’d just have to be more careful about what he let the professor see—Harry didn’t necessarily want him to think he’d gone off the bend or anything.

Beyond Defense and Potions, the rest of his classes meant very little to him, except for Care of Magical Creatures. Before their first class, the Slytherins—sans Draco, who was quiet and moody—had begun to tease Harry. He’d ignored them, shadowed by Ron, Hermione, and Neville who surrounded him with friendship and bodily protection, but their taunts had grown louder and louder, until Theodore Nott had said snidely, “At least now we finally know why your parents were so willing to off themselves for you. _Freak._ ”

The words had been chilling, nauseating, damning, and worst of all, true. Nott saw to Harry’s core and had told the world—Harry wanted nothing more than to apologize, to cry and beg his parents for forgiveness. They’d given him his life and he’d wasted it.

But he hadn’t said anything to Nott, nor to Seamus, who had coughed out a surprised laugh before he could stop himself. Instead, Harry felt the embarrassing hot tears of truth spark at his eyes and shoved his chin to his chest before anyone could see, throat too tight for words.

“Oi!” Hagrid, bustling towards the group from behind his hut with animal corpses of various sizes slung over his shoulders, bristled and bellowed at Nott. “That’ll be 30 points from Slytherin, and detention wi’ Filch for a week!”

Pansy Parkinson, in a rare spot of Slytherin bravery, said, “But professor, he was just telling the truth. It’s not Theo’s fault that Potter’s a crybaby.”

“Y’ want a detention too? I don’ wanna hear another word against young Harry here for the rest of the year—it’ll be more points off each time.”

Even some of the Gryffindors had begged off at that, and Harry almost didn’t blame them—his gender was quite a popular discussion point at the moment.

“No,” Hagrid said. “Not worth talkin’ about. Listen, you lot.”

And then he’d told them a story none of them had ever expected to hear, a story about his mother and father and love between people who weren’t allowed to love each other, and a reminder of that love in the form of a boy too large for his father and too small for his mother.

“If you want tuh talk about freaks, Nott, yer lookin’ at the biggest one right here. I lived with that secret for all my life until now, and it’s only thanks to Harry that I ever thought about tellin’ anyone of yous.”

They’d stared up at Hagrid in shocked silence. Harry had never heard more words out of the man’s mouth at one time, let alone more personal information. Though Hagrid was friendly and wonderful, he was rather close-mouthed about his life before becoming the groundskeeper. To tell a bunch of fourteen-year-olds such a vulnerable part of his story was nothing any of them had expected.

“We’ve all got messed up things inside of us, I reckon—but that don’t mean they’re worth hurtin’ ourselves or each other over. That’s why I teach this class, in’t it? To show you that even monsters are worthwhile, are important, are good, in their own ways.” He’d taken a big breath then, chest bulging in his huge waistcoat, and beckoned them towards the pens of what they learned were blast-ended skrewts. The rest of the lecture was much less interesting, but Harry’s heart was warm and full. After the others had left for lunch, he’d run to Hagrid and wrapped him in as much of a hug he could give.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” he’d said, honestly and gratitude rolling off his tongue. “I—you didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

“If you can come back an’ deal with that load shootin’ off tosh about things that aren’t none o’ their business, I reckon I can back you up,” Hagrid said, the dark skin around his eyes crinkling as they, too, welled with tears. “Yer a good kid, Harry. Keep yer head up.”

Harry’d hugged him one last time, throwing all the words he couldn’t say into the motion, and then run to catch up with the others on their way to lunch.

Food didn’t taste great anymore, and he spent most of his meals staring off at the Ravenclaw table for Luna or Slytherin for Draco. Quite honestly, he felt closer to the two of them than he did Ron or Hermione—but how could he bear to lose his two _first_ friends? Even without memories, they hadn’t abandoned him. How could he then abandon them? The guilt gnawed at Harry, reducing his appetite even further. Was he doomed for anxiety upon anxiety for the rest of his life? Would nothing sate his endless unease?

Harry didn’t have nightmares so much as stress dreams, ones that found him covered in sweat and more exhausted than the night before. More often than not they involved fire and a certain hissing voice—he would wake frightened that he was talking with Voldemort once more, only to realize it was just another product of his imagination. His scar hadn’t hurt since the fire; all that was left of Voldemort, at least for now, was Harry’s fear of him.

Harry’s attention span was slowly improving with school, which was one benefit. He didn’t have the ability to dissociate as much as he had been over the summer, constantly shaken out of his thoughts by class and friends and the regular calamity of Hogwarts. Sometimes he’d still find himself missing a few minutes, sometimes even a class period, but never hours and hours or days as he’d done over the summer. Still, though, he was exhausted by the sheer energy involved in staying present, the work it took to focus on all his classes and schedule.

So by the time Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrived, Harry only had the energy to trail behind Ron and Hermione, idly dreaming of a soft nest of blankets and pillows as he nodded in agreement with their excited chatter. Only one thing shook him: a faint buzzing interest pricked his mind as the Durmstrang headmaster walked past, clasping the shoulder of none other than Viktor Krum. They made quite a pair, both of them fierce and scowling. Soon, though, Harry fell back into his sleepy, uninterested state, and finished the night out with his elbows on the table, hands propping his head up. As soon as the feast was over and all the information about the goblet of fire and whatnot had been said, he made his way up to the Gryffindor tower and collapsed on his bed.

“You’re not even the slightest bit interested in the tournament?” Ron asked from his own bed.

“No,” Harry said honestly, eyes already shut as he began changing into his pajamas. “Too much work, too much energy. I’d rather sleep.” His words were finalized by a large yawn. Ron threw a dirty sock at him.

“Go to bed then, mate,” Ron said, laughing. “I reckon Fred and George’ll figure a way out of the age line, though, and I wanna get my name in. A thousand galleons… I could do a lot with that.”

Harry fell asleep listening to Ron ramble on about everything he’d buy, starting with a new pet—his old rat, Scabbers, was presumed dead. His dreams were occupied by a skittish rat scampering through forests, which was a welcome relief from his usual foreboding ones. This, at least, he knew was only because of Ron’s nattering on.

↠

Sirius didn’t know if he would ever be happy again, but it was worth it to try.

The dementors had taken something from him he would never get back, something warm and sticky like honey from his heart. He couldn’t feel that deep, murky safety inside himself that he used to know, that incontrovertible sense of security and identity that most people innately owned within themselves. The closest he could get to that old feeling was curled at the foot of Remus’ bed, an old flannel wrapped around him and a toy under his paws. There, surrounded by the soft breaths of his boy and the faint scent of cigarettes and coffee, Sirius could finally relax, loosen his bones and melt into the blankets around him. He didn’t have to be afraid.

When he was human, though, the fear came creeping back in no matter where he was. Even in Remus’s arms, even behind a hundred wards and in his coziest jacket, he could still feel moment’s away from death and panic and decay and the black, scabbing flesh of the dementors’ reach.

If he wasn’t widely recognized as a mass murderer on the run, Sirius would probably be in an intensive care program right now. Some sort of hospitalized rehabilitation or something, to get his head back on the right fucking way around. Instead, all he could do was hide behind Remus and try to do the best he could. Remus was learning meditation and yoga with them, switching out early morning smokes for early morning stretches and breathing exercises. They were learning shit about ‘intentions’ and ‘self-care’ and ‘positive affirmations.’ It fucking sucked.

But Remus believed it could help, and Sirius didn’t want to disappoint him _again,_ so he carried on for him. And when it got to be too much, he’d disappear into his canine safety net again, pad his way into the bedroom, jump up on the comforter, circle until he found the right spot, and lay down for a nap. Being human was always easier after a nice nap unencroached by nightmares.

Stuck in the castle with no escape was miserable, too, but being close to Harry made up for it. Knowing he could be close by in case anything happened reassured Sirius to no end—since the fire, his paranoia had sparked intensely, and he would start several times a week with the desperate urge to find Harry and make sure he was safe. Sirius had twelve years of absence to make up for, twelve years wherein Harry had been neglected, hurt, and abandoned, twelve years wherein Harry hadn’t even known there was someone out there who loved him. It was Sirius’ job to watch over him, take care of him, keep him safe from harm. Remus said this was ‘misplaced anxiety’ and ‘fruitless hypervigilance’ but Sirius chose to ignore him. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the fire, he hadn’t heard Harry’s faint moans, he hadn’t felt his blood freeze when Harry’s eyes rolled back into his head and he’d thought, he’d thought, just for a moment, that—. No. He couldn’t even think it, couldn’t bear to remember the cold nothingness within him in the moment he’d believed Harry had died. It was too much.

When Harry first came down for dinner, the rush of emotions and energy inside of Sirius had been so much that he’d immediately transformed into Padfoot. He hadn’t been able to transform back into a human for the rest of the night, but Harry didn’t seem to mind. After all, he’d bonded with Padfoot—or Grim, as Harry called him—before bonding with Sirius, and there was something raw and animalistic in the boy, too. Sirius could see it in the depths of his eyes, smell it on his skin. Harry, too, understood what it was to be hunted.

Hours after he’d left, Sirius finally transformed back to himself and, after brewing a strong pot of tea, made his way to Remus’ bed.

Remus, who had his reading glasses on and was reading an old, battered copy of some muggle detective story, looked up as he entered. “Are you okay?” His voice was laced with concern and sympathy, and it made Sirius want to hurl his mug at the wall.

“I’m fine,” he said wearily, exchanging anger and resentment for the softer tools of semi-honesty and vulnerability. Remus didn’t mean anything by it, after all—but of course he wasn’t okay. “It’s just hard to see him. Brings back too many emotions, memories.”

“I understand,” Remus said, dog-earing his page and setting the book on the bedside table. “Come here.”

Sirius practically fell into bed next to him, allowing Remus to gently fold him into an embrace, pulling his body tight against his own. The warmth of the werewolf’s blood danced through his own veins in their closeness, a wild urge to protect and hold washing over him. Sirius could feel Remus’ thoughts, his desperate desire to make everything okay. A strong, scarred hand carded through his long, tangled hair, and Sirius remembered the day Harry had bathed Padfoot, trimmed his matts and brushed his fur until it shined.

“He’s hurting, Reems.”

“I know,” Remus said quietly. “He won’t talk about it, at least not to me, but something’s still wrong. The poor kid—he’s never had a proper chance to heal.”

“Aberforth was good for him.”

“Yes, but not good enough. He needs someone to confront him, someone to pull him out of his head—Aberforth’s never been one for direct conversation. I’ve tried to talk to Snape about it.”

Sirius whined, in part because of Remus’ words and in part because Remus had stopped playing with his hair. Chuckling, Remus returned his hand to his head, and Sirius nuzzled into the warmth.

“Thank you,” Sirius said after a few moments. “For still putting up with me. For forgiving me. For listening to me. For believing me. For loving me.”

Remus’ hand stilled for just a moment, and then resumed its slow drag through his hair. “I’m a mess, Pads,” he said, and Sirius had to strain to hear him. “I’ve been a mess ever since we left Hogwarts—since before that, really. It’s been the one constant in my life. Other than you. Even when you were in Azkaban, even when I thought you had betrayed James and Lily—and me—I was still desperately, madly in love with you. I hated myself for it, hated that I couldn’t pull my heart away from yours. I have never once, not one day, not one moment, stopped loving you. You are _mine,_ Sirius, and I will never ever have to ‘put up with you.’ Dog or man—either way, you are my companion forever.”

Sirius hummed, words overtaken by emotion for the moment. He pulled Remus’ hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Then, propping himself up on his elbows, he leaned into Remus and kissed his lips, too, just as tenderly.

“Thank you,” he said again, and kissed him again, and then again, and then once more for good measure, and hoped with all his heart that he words he still couldn’t say out loud were there in their mouths, melting between the both of them in that space where time and memory and possibility no longer mattered.

↠

The night of the choosing ceremony for the contestants was cold and windswept. Harry had spent the afternoon after classes with Luna, walking through the grounds and talking. She was less chatty than normal, quiet and reserved, and Harry struggled to maintain a comfortable conversation with her. It felt just as cold between them as the weather, and he huddled into himself. He couldn’t imagine why she would be upset with him, although they hadn’t really talked very much all term. Had he done something during the World Cup?

“Are you okay?” he finally asked. Luna shivered a bit and wrapped her robe around herself. She ignored his gaze, and Harry couldn’t help but flinch at the rejection.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice low and small. “Just listening to the world for once.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m _fine._ ”

Harry felt a hard lump in his throat, a mound of salt and heat he furiously swallowed down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m glad you’re okay.” And then before she could respond, he hurried away back towards the warmth of the castle, exhausted and miserable and full of self-hatred for all the things he’d messed up and not even noticed

He was one of the first students in the Great Hall, though within half an hour the room was bubbling with excitement and noise. Harry kept his head down, nursing a cup of tea and his self-inflicted misery, barely noticing when Ron and Hermione arrived at his side. Ginny sat down shortly after, apparently coming from the Ravenclaw table where she hadn’t seen Luna.

“Have you seen her today, Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “She was fine.”

Ginny shot him a strange look which he ignored in favor of studying the woodgrain on the table. His friends talked over dinner, but he remained silent, fiddling with his food and dreaming of a quiet bedroom all to himself where he could sleep and/or cry in peace.

The Goblet of Fire was accompanied with all sorts of drama and intrigue, but Harry couldn’t immerse himself in the show Dumbledore and the other administrators were setting up. He found himself watching Snape in the background, Snape whose face revealed absolutely no emotions but who, Harry was sure, loathed the display as much as he did. Harry couldn’t help but smile a little as Fleur Delacour’s name was called—the Beauxbatons students began crying and wailing in dismay while the rest of the hall erupted into oohs, ahhs, and excited cheers. The only sign from Snape that he’d even noticed what happened was a tightening of his lips, which Harry was sure was covering up a massive sneer. He empathized.

Krum was called next, which didn’t surprise Harry—he pegged Krum as the winner as soon as he’d walked into Hogwarts.

Cedric Diggory was next, and Harry watched as the tall, broad-shouldered seventh year strode up to the front of the hall, smiling and waving at his fellow Hufflepuffs, who were beside themselves with pride. He was glad that a Hufflepuff had been chosen and was uncomfortably pleased that he’d get to watch Diggory for hours at a time. He chose not to consider where that thought came from, instead clapping along with the rest of the students and then settling back down to finish his dinner before, hopefully, he could escape up to the tower and fall asleep.

Unfortunately, Harry rarely got what he hoped for. As Dumbledore wrapped up his silly speech, the goblet began to spark flames once more and then, with a brilliant flash of light, a fourth slip of paper jetted from its depths and into the air. Dumbledore stumbled back from the light but managed to catch the paper—nothing more than a torn scrap of parchment—in an outstretched hand. He stared down at it, face grave, and then called out in a tone much less exuberant than before: “Harry Potter.”

Harry was confused as to why Dumbledore was calling his name. Had he done something wrong? Whose name was on the paper? It took him several seconds of internal terror and confusion before he realized. “Harry Potter!” Dumbledore called again.

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, pushing his shoulder. “Harry, you have to go up there.”

He turned to her, eyes wide with fright, but she just pushed him once more. Ron wouldn’t meet his eyes. Ginny looked as confused as he did.

Slowly, feeling as if he was in the fog of a nightmare where his limbs didn’t work or where he was naked in class, Harry swung his legs from the bench and stood. The whole room was staring at him. He tripped over his shoelaces and blushed furiously. Someone laughed, which broke the confused silence.

The walk up to the front felt like the hardest thing Harry had ever done, and he kept his shoulders hunched and head bent to hide away from the growing ridicule and upset around him.

“She’s a cheat,” someone from the Ravenclaw table yelled, and Harry shoved his hands into his robes to hide their shaking. Just a few more steps, just a few more steps and then he’d be done, he could run away and hide and break down and he wouldn’t have to listen to any of this.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Harry flinched away from it. The hand retreated.

“Potter,” said a level, calm voice. “Follow me.”

Daring a look up, Harry met the still unreadable eyes of Snape. He felt the questioning probe of Legilimency and let his shields fall back as much as he could. _I didn’t do this,_ he tried to say, _I don’t know what’s going on. I’m scared._ Snape’s eyes softened just a fraction, and his hand found Harry’s shoulder once more. This time, Harry didn’t flinch back and instead let himself be led away into the same corridor all the other champions had exited into.

“Professor,” he managed to say as soon as the door from the Great Hall swung shut. “Professor, I didn’t—.”

“I know,” Snape said sharply. “Calm yourself. Stay steady. Do not show any weakness just now—not in front of the other competitors or headmasters.”

“I—.”

“Later,” Snape hissed, and pushed him forward down the corridor and into the small room where Fleur, Viktor, and Cedric were all waiting.

It wasn’t long before Dumbledore, Crouch, Bagman, and the other headmasters arrived, followed by Professor McGonagall and Remus.

“Harry,” Dumbledore yelled, rushing up to him and grabbing his arm. “Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire? Did you?”

“I, no, sir, I—please.” Harry’s words were garbled, his terror at being grabbed—and at the whole situation—overriding Snape’s last words to him.

“Of course ee did,” Madame Maxime cried, hitting the chandelier out of her way as she swept towards them. “Of course ‘Ogwarts would be looking for any way to cheat!”

“It does not surprise me at all,” Karkaroff said, “That Dumbledore vould find a vay to ensure its victory.”

“I didn’t!”

Snape’s hand clamped down on his shoulder once more. “It does not matter,” he said. “What matters now is if he must compete or not.”

“He must,” Crouch said. “Once the goblet has chosen a victor, they must compete on pain of death.”

“What?” Remus looked aghast, as did Professor McGonagall. “That’s absurd—he’s only fourteen, he’s not allowed—.”

“It does not matter. If the goblet has chosen him, then he cannot back out. Hogwarts will have two champions in this Triwizard Tournament.”

“I don’t want to,” Harry said quickly, desperate for any way out.

“Vell, of course that is vat you say _now,_ foolish boy, now that you haff succeeded! You are a dirty liar just like your headmaster.” Karkaroff shook a dirty, yellow-nailed hand at Dumbledore, who blinked mildly.

“Karkaroff, I do not object to any insults on my behalf, but please refrain from deriding the reputation of my students,” he said. Karkaroff growled angrily.

“So ze child must fight?” Fleur asked. “Even zo he is so young and does not want to?” Her concern, while patronizing, was appreciated in comparison to the rest of the room. Though it was interesting to note that Krum and Cedric, too, looked concerned that he would compete. Maybe because they thought he’d win a sympathy vote or something.

“I am afraid there is no way around it,” Crouch said once more, dark eyes darting through the room nervously. “Potter must compete and will be dealt the same restrictions and expectations as the rest of the contestants. No exceptions or allowances will be made.”

The room erupted into discontented rumbles and complaints once more. Harry, though the center of the conversation, was widely ignored by everyone except Remus, who was standing behind him in a show of support. McGonagall was adamantly arguing against Karkaroff in defense of Dumbledore’s reputation, and Snape was glaring daggers at both Crouch and Bagman. Harry wanted nothing more than to slip into the darkness with Remus and escape to the safety of his rooms where he could pet Sirius and cry his eyes out. But no, he had to stand there, resolute and strong, until the adults were done squabbling.

It was miserable.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Harry! I really like this chapter.

Severus groaned at the sight of Lupin in his office. _Again._

“What do you want?”

“Harry.”

“What about him?”

Lupin sat down in front of his desk—uninvited, naturally. “Has he spoken with you since the ceremony?”

“No.” Severus wearily thumped his head against the shelf he was turned to, exasperated by the troublesome boy and his knack for turning absolutely anything into a huge mess. “Not for lack of trying, Lupin, I assure you.”

Lupin shot him a sympathetic look that he thoroughly ignored. The werewolf had met with him the first week of school, wanting to talk about Harry’s mental state and whatnot. It had been a long roundabout discussion wherein they agreed that 1. Harry wasn’t okay and 2. Neither of them were properly equipped to help him. They disagreed as to whose job it was to try, though.

“Ron has abandoned him, yet again. Hermione refuses to choose between her friends and, in doing so, essentially chooses Ron in Harry’s mind. Luna Lovegood, the Ravenclaw, has been avoiding him all term. Since the ceremony he’s only drawn further into himself.”

“I know, Lupin. I teach the same students you do.”

“Yes, well. What should we do? Short of sequestering him in my rooms along with Sirius, I don’t know how I can help.”

Severus hummed noncommittally. It wasn’t as if he had any ideas.

“And the way the other students tease him about… well, you know. I just wish at least one thing was easy for him, Snape.”

“What would you have me do,” Severus said stiffly. He knew where this was going, and kept his back turned to Lupin and his eyes on the shelves.

“Help him,” Lupin pleaded. “Listen, I know that you don’t have… the best memories of _him,_ but you’ve done this before. You know more than I do, more even than Sirius. We’re all watching out for him, but you’re the only one that can actually do something concrete.”

“You’re just as equipped as I to do the basic research necessary.”

“I know, but Sn—Severus. You’ve helped him before; he told me about it, about when he first ran away and whatnot. I don’t think I could have helped him in the way you did then, without judgment or question. You _understood._ He needs that.”

Severus pulled down a jar of expired gurdyroots. “What he _needs_ is a life safe from dark lords, death eaters, and plotting masterminds. I cannot provide that.”

“No, but you can help. Last year you seemed close to him—why have you shut him out this term?”

Growling, Severus turned and slammed his hands against the desk. Lupin flinched, but only just. “Forgive me,” he snarled, “If I do not know the right way to approach a broken, hurting child. Forgive me if I hesitate from dedicating myself to the son of a man I never had the chance to forgive or understand, the son of a woman I never had the chance to be forgiven by. Forgive me if I hesitate to place myself in a position of respect or, god forbid, admiration in the eyes of a boy whose life I destroyed. Forgive me if I hesitate to become exactly as dangerous as my own fath—.” With a choking noise, Severus shut himself up, breathing hard.

Lupin rose from his seat and crossed to the other side of the desk where he stood. “Severus,” he said gently, near enough to whisper. “Forgive _me._ I did not know how much you had thought of this. I did not know how much you suffered.”

“Moments before Aberforth offered his home to Harry, I had been… prepared to do the same. Prepared to give him a room, a home, a life. I thank god that Aberforth spoke before me. I have no right to be in the boy’s life, no right to claim in as anything other than a student.”

“What penance must you serve that I must not? What right do I have that you do not?”

“ _You,_ ” Snape sneered, though his voice betrayed the derision he wished to inflect, “are not directly responsible for his parents’ deaths. _You_ are not branded by the thing inside his head that even now seeks to return and kill him once more.”

Lupin moved to touch him but retreated at Snape’s flinch. “No, but I abandoned him for twelve years, for which I have no excuse. No prison to be caught in, no secrets to keep. I stayed away because I am a coward, did not want to face the child of my dead friends—and then I forgot, through a mix of Harry’s magic and mine own, and ignored him even when he was right in front of me. At least you _noticed._ ”

“Better a cowardly wolf than a poisonous snake,” Severus said shakily. This was why he met with people on appointment only—he needed to prepare himself for social occasions so that he didn’t fuck up and admit to vulnerabilities like this.

“He might have an immunity,” Lupin said, and they both smirked despite the severity of the conversation. “Listen, I’m sorry this got so serious. I didn’t intend for that. I’m just worried that under Dumbledore’s thumb and without his friends, Harry will waste away. He needs security, and you can offer that every day of the month. I can’t. Just… look out for him. I know you already are, and I am too, but I’m worried.”

“I am too,” Snape admitted. “He hardly speaks anymore. Works with Longbottom in class, which of course wreaks further disaster and misery.”

Lupin laughed. “Don’t be so hard on Neville,” he said.

“I’ll relax as soon as he stops blowing up his cauldrons on a regular basis.”

It wasn’t hard to push Lupin out of his office soon after that, but the conversation lingered with him for longer than he’d thought. He hadn’t meant to say any of that—ever—and the knowledge that the werewolf of all people now knew exactly what he’d been thinking… it shook him to his core.

What the fuck was he going to do about Potter? What could any of them do? The trouble with the boy was his deadset reluctance to trust anyone one-hundred percent. Not that Severus blamed him—he had been the exact same as a boy. As for what Lupin had said, though… he was right, in a way. Who else in Harry’s circle had dealt with transitioning before? It was not common information in the wizarding world, and as a potions master and someone with… former experience in the issue, Severus was best positioned out of all of them to help him. But could he?

At Privet Drive, he had come to know a Harry Potter far more vulnerable and genuine than any version of the boy at Hogwarts. He had healed his wounds, listened to his complaints, laughed with him. He had learned more about Harry than he ever thought he would, both because he hadn’t believed Harry would ever open up to him _or_ that he would ever be willing to listen. It was nothing short of a miracle.

But since then—and it hurt to admit this—Severus had withdrawn. A combination of guilt, fear, paranoia, and self-loathing resulted in a reluctance to associate with the boy, particularly as Harry tried to heal from the fire and the rest of his miserable life. Surely he, a former death eater, the betrayer of his parents’ secrets, a fucked-up bastard with enough trauma for the both of them, was the worst sort of person for Harry to trust? Especially given his revealed status as a horcrux, as a part and parcel of Severus’ former-possibly-returning master, it made no sense for Harry to be around him at all. He shuddered at the thought.

This same argument had been wrung out in his head more times than he could count these last few months. It was tiring, to go in circles, but he couldn’t figure his way out of it. Harry hadn’t come to him. He didn’t want him, he didn’t need him. No, the best thing for Severus to do was to stay out of it entirely. Unless Harry said something, he’d keep his distance.

A niggling thought reminded him of his own reluctance to ask for help as a child, his own fear of rejection and abandonment… but as always, he ignored the best parts of himself.

↠

“I thought we could be friends.”

“You know, Lovegood, most people say ‘hello’ before they start talking nonsense. You should try it.”

Luna sniffed but stayed by Draco’s side anyway.

“You’re lonely,” she said. “I am too. Also, our hair is nearly the same shade, which is quite impressive. I’ve been watching you, and something’s wrong. I could help, if you wanted.”

Draco scoffed and looked up from his textbook. She’d found him in a corner of the library, studying on his own.

“And how, exactly, would you be able to help me?” His face was pinched and tired, deep circles under his eyes.

“Well, you’d probably have to tell me something, or at least trust me to find things out for myself. I’m quite good at it. But either way, a friend can make quite a lot of difference.”

“Bit hypocritical of you, considering how you’ve been ignoring Harry,” Draco shot at her.

“I’m not ignoring him. I’m giving him the space he needs.”

“Explain that, then.” He was skeptical, which Luna supposed was fair. It was interesting how the both of them had been watching each other all year—they were a set of very bad, very emotional spies.

“He’s happy with his Gryffindors. He deserves better than me, and I don’t deserve him at all. I would love to be by his side, but I realized that I’m just not made for that. I’m too broken, I suppose.”

“But you’re good enough for me?”

“Exactly,” Luna said, smiling brightly for the first time in what felt like forever. “I’m glad you understand.”

Draco groaned, but didn’t push her away. Instead, he moved some of his books to make a spot for her bag on the table and kicked out a chair. “Sit down, then,” he said. “Help me write this Transfigurations essay.”

“Oh, I think you misunderstood,” Luna said as she slid into the seat. “I want to help you with whatever mysterious task the Dark Lord’s given you so that you can be happy and free and cute again, and actually talk to Harry because you’re his best friend and just as good for him as he is for you.”

Draco flushed and shot her another dark look. He didn’t question any part of her statement though, for which Luna was grateful. She didn’t like explaining obvious things to people.

“Tough shit, Lovegood—this essay is due in two hours and I’ve barely started.”

“Well, you wrote your name! That’s always a good place to begin.”

Draco threw a wad of parchment at her; it bounced off her nose and into her lap. Before they knew it, they were both laughing, keeping the noise stifled as much as possible so as to avoid the wrath of Madame Pince.

↠

As soon as Harry had escaped from all the victors and headmasters after his name was chosen, he’d collapsed into a panic attack in the safety of Remus’ rooms. Sirius had been there to curl up on his lap—in dog form, of course—and he’d been grateful for the attention and care the two of them had given him, but even so, the thought of the nearing first task shot panic through his bones. Though the others might have figured it out by now, Harry had known since the start that they’d be fighting dragons. Fucking dragons.

“I don’t breathe fire,” he’d told Remus and Sirius angrily during dinner a few weeks after the choosing ceremony. “I don’t have wings, or scales, or a massive spiked tail to destroy things with. I’m fourteen. What the hell am I supposed to do against a terrifying, house-sized creature that could just as easily eat me or burn me to a crisp?”

Remus and Sirius had both winced sympathetically, reading into what Harry had been too afraid to say. What was he supposed to do if, in the middle of the stadium, under the eyes of hundreds of wixen, Harry fell into a flashback of the fire?

“Have you talked to Charlie?” Sirius asked.

“Is that allowed?”

“Hm… you’d have to invite him here, I reckon. You wouldn’t be allowed to visit him at the dragon site in the forest—that’d be too suspicious. But if he visited in the guise of a family friend or something, rather than helping with the task, I bet that’d work.”

Harry let out a breath of relief. He hadn’t even considered talking to Charlie, but of course the dragon-keeper would have the best tips for the task. And there would be the added bonus of getting to hang out with Charlie.”

“Thanks, Sirius! I’ll go write him right now.”

Sirius laughed as Harry ran to get parchment and quill. Charlie had been the one to write Remus in the first place, extending the offer to meet and subtly slip Harry some hints. Though he’d only met Harry once before, he seemed interested in helping out as much as he could.

Charlie showed up for dinner at Remus’ quarters the next weekend, with only two weeks before the first task.

“The dragons aren’t going to want to hurt you,” he reassured Harry. “Especially not when they’ve got a fake brood of eggs to watch over. They’ll be focused on staying in one place, not moving, and keeping the eggs warm and safe.”

“That’s all well and good, but how am I supposed to get an egg?”

“I can’t just tell you everything,” Charlie laughed exasperatedly. “You gotta figure some of this shit out for yourself.”

“Are there any ways to calm them down? Hagrid had a Cerberus first year—all he had to do was play music.”

“They like music, sure, but it won’t set them to sleep. They’re more likely to listen to other creatures than humans—they think we’re rather silly unless we take the time to bond with them and earn their trust. They’re quite social creatures.”

Harry frowned, and then his eyes sparked with a golden idea.

“What about a snake?”

↠

That Monday, it was fairly warm for a November day and Harry was studying in the courtyard. He’d seen Luna across the yard and tried to wave at her, but she’d turned away from him, delving deeper into the book she was reading. Dismayed, Harry had given up. He didn’t want to push her if she wasn’t ready to talk.

His attention was brought back to her when a commotion started up, though.

A few other Ravenclaws had drawn around her, and he saw one of them rip her book away from her.

“Please don’t do that,” Luna said quietly.

“ _Please don’t do that,_ ” one of her aggressors jeered, opening to the page Luna had been on. “Why, what are you doing to do? Set some nargles on us?”

“They don’t normally respond to human requests, but I could try.” This brought on more laughter from the students around her.

“Hey!” Harry ran up to them, pushing some of them apart so he could reach Luna. “Give Luna back her book and then get the fuck away from here.”

“Aww, look—another freak come to help.” The boy talking was tall and pockmarked with curly brown hair. His face was twisted into a sneer and he looked down at Harry like he was some sort of bug.

“Luna’s my friend _,_ ” Harry said strongly. “Stop being so cruel.”

“What do people like you expect—to be treated like you’re normal? I don’t think so. Freaks like you shouldn’t be in the same classes as us, let alone the same dorms. It’d be better if you lot just hurried up and left.”

Harry recoiled. “What?”

“You heard me—none of us should have to deal with weirdos like you. We’ve been trying to get Loony out of our house for years and it’s never worked; maybe they'd listen to you though. You seem like you’ve got better sense.” He stepped towards Harry threateningly and Harry, his fear surging up, fell backwards against the trunk of the tree. Luna was still sitting on the ground beside him, eyes wide.

“Oy, Mason.” The boy turned to look at whoever had called his name. “D’you think your mum wants to hear about how you’ve been picking on kids again? What happened last time—didn’t she threaten to take away your broom?”

The boy—Mason—scowled. “This isn’t none of your business, Diggory,” he muttered.

“Isn’t it? I am a prefect, after all, and this seems like a horrendous display of bullying and ignorance.” Cedric stepped into the ring of students and extended his hand to Luna, who tentatively accepted it and pulled herself up, dusting off her skirt. “Don’t think I won’t report this to Flitwick. Clear off, you lot!”

Stunned, the other students dissembled, falling away from the courtyard and shooting stares at Cedric, who seemed unbothered.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Luna said. “They’ll just hate you, now, too.”

“Naw,” Cedric said. “I’m much too pretty; they’ll forgive me in a heartbeat.” He winked, and both Harry and Luna blushed. “Do you want to come with me and talk to Professor Flitwick?”

“I don’t think he’ll listen,” Luna said honestly, biting her lip. “It’s been going on for so long.”

“I think he will. Listen, Luna—no one deserves to be treated like that. If you’re unsafe in your own house, Flitwick needs to know about it. I’ll be there the whole time.”

“Okay,” she whispered. Shyly, she turned to Harry, who had stood quietly apart from them while they talked. He was filled with regret and guilt that he hadn’t been the one to take a more concrete step to help his friend.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

“No,” she admitted. “They’ve been… they’ve been even worse this year. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Harry said firmly. “Nothing.”

“But how come… how come people still like you? Still treat you like you’re normal—but not me?”

Harry blinked, shocked. Had Luna been feeling so alone, even from him, all this time? “Luna, Luna, they _don’t._ They act like it, but they don’t. I’m miserable too! Seamus and Dean, in my dorm, won’t even look at me anymore! They only talk to me in class, never when we’re in the dorm. And people stare at me all the time, and make fun of my voice, and I hate it, I hate it so much! I’m always afraid that people can tell, can see what I’m supposed to look like or hear how high my voice is or…” Harry trailed off, wiping the small tears that had sparked. “Luna, I’m so so sorry you’ve been feeling like this all on your own. You’re not alone, okay? I promise.”

“It’s not fair,” she said in a small voice, and Harry noticed she hadn’t let go of Cedric’s hand and was in fact squeezing it tighter. The Hufflepuff just smiled sadly and let her cry. “You’re so much better at dealing with this than me. I thought… I thought I deserved it, what they did to me.”

“You don’t,” Cedric said. “You don’t deserve that; no one does. I’ll say it as often as I need to.”

Luna smiled then, something small and fragile, and Harry stepped closer to hug her. He had to stand on tip-toes to put his arms around her and rest his head on her shoulder.

“I love you,” he said, “And I’m sorry I let you suffer alone these last few months. I thought you didn’t want me around, but I understand better now.”

And then they were both laughing and crying at their own stupid misunderstanding, that both of them had been afraid to talk to the other but missing each other desperately, and Cedric was standing off to the side looking awkward but happy that he could be there for them, and they decided to all walk to Professor Flitwick’s office together, and once Luna had gone in to talk to Flitwick alone after they’d shared their concerns, Harry pulled Cedric into an abandoned corridor and told him about the dragons. And Cedric went pale and clammy and said, “Really? Real, live dragons? With fire and everything?” and Harry laughed in a scared sort of way and said, “Yeah, I know right?” and Cedric shook his head in dismay and thanked Harry, clapping him on the shoulder, and then ran off to the library.

Harry sat down outside Flitwick’s office and pulled out his homework, wanting to talk to Luna as soon as she was done. After all, they had months of conversation to catch up on.

↠

There was something to be said about the power of friends. Harry and Luna, both of whom were anxious, overly-emotional, and bad-but-getting-better at communication, probably should have taken much longer to reacquaint themselves. But it was like the flick of a switch—one day they were barely talking to each other, the next day they were as inseparable as ever. Yes, it was strange, but they were both immensely grateful for the change anyway. They were better together, as always.

Harry got to vent to Luna about how nervous he was for the first task, how scared he was that he would have a panic attack. Luna, in turn, got to finally share how lonely she was in Ravenclaw, and how close she had gotten with Draco. They formed an odd trio of sorts, with two of them talking but not talking, friends but not friends. Harry didn’t share everything about his relationship with Draco, not wanting to endanger him or Luna, but enough to let her know that while he liked and trusted Draco, he couldn’t be seen hanging around with him all the time. For some odd reason that none of them really understood.

Harry even told her a little bit about his plans for the first task, and introduced her to Nettles, who Luna was absolutely smitten with.

“ _I like this one very much,_ ” Nettles said as she stretched along the length of Luna’s arms, and Luna giggled.

“I haven’t told many people about her,” Harry admitted. “It feels weird to always have a snake around, you know? I don’t wanna freak people out.”

“Oh, but she’s so lovely,” Luna cooed. “Who would be freaked out?”

Quite a lot of people, Harry thought but didn’t say. Practically anyone else in the world.

↠

The Thursday before the first task, Harry had a panic attack in potions.

He’d been doing fine, honestly. He’d been feeling much better since the unexpected meet-up with Luna and Cedric; he felt happy-ish again, light-hearted and free. So what if someone put his name in the Goblet of Fire? If he had friends, who understood and cared for him, he’d be just fine.

And then someone—he figured it was Seamus, who’d been sitting in front of him and hadn’t spoken to him properly all year—slipped some extra powdered bicorn horn into Harry’s potion and it exploded in a glorious whoosh of flame. 

And the world went black and fuzzy and messy and he stopped thinking for a while, trapped in a burning cupboard where no one loved him or even noticed he was dying.

When the world started to right itself again, Harry first heard a low, calm murmur. The words were slow and steady, a string of assurances melting around him.

Eventually, Harry gained the courage to pry open his eyes. He was under a desk.

“Wha’ppened?” His voice was hoarse—he’d been crying.

“Finnegan received a week of detentions with Filch and fifty points from Gryffindor. I cleared out the room as quickly as possible, appearing as though I planned to berate you privately; I don’t believe anyone saw the worst of your upset.”

Harry let out a shaky breath and tightened his arms around his knees. He was curled on his side beneath Snape’s desk, back pressed firmly against the drawers. He was sweating and trembling and nauseous and dizzy and…

“Do you think you can come out, or would a calming potion help?”

Harry shook his head. Snape’s hand slid a small vial towards Harry and then retreated outside the bubble of safety Harry had cocooned for himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably once he’d managed to uncork the vial and drink it down. The fuzzy hysteria receded to the edges of his mind, but the aftereffects of his flashback were still there.

“No apologies are necessary,” Snape said levelly. “I only desire that you find yourself able to extricate yourself from the desk, else I shall be required to maneuver myself into an uncomfortable position in order for us to have a conversation.”

Harry groaned and managed to relax the tension in his limbs enough to crawl out from his hiding spot; he didn’t make it off the ground though, only managing to pull himself into a seated position against the desk before losing his energy again. Snape didn’t seem bothered and conjured two pillows for them to sit on, as well as a thick blanket that Harry pulled around his knees and huddled into.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” Snape tilted his head towards Harry. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Harry laid his head on his knees and closed his eyes. “I felt the fire. I thought I was back there. Stuck.”

“Does this happen often?”

“I d-don’t like fire at all anymore. It scares me, but I can deal with it unless it’s close or unexpected. It makes me… it terrifies me, and I can’t stop thinking about what, what happened.”

Harry waited for Snape to mock him or tell him to get over it or something. What he didn’t expect was for him to say, “That’s entirely understandable.”

Harry’s eyes blinked open to meet Snape’s. “What?”

“Frankly, Harry, I am surprised you’ve managed to survive this far into the term without more panic attacks as grievous as this one.”

“How do you mean?”

Snape laughed a little, but Harry didn’t feel as though he were laughing at him. Or, rather, he knew that he was, but it didn’t feel cruel. “Harry, you survived a nightmare situation— _another_ nightmare situation, I should say. You were trapped and on the brink of death, and only barely escaped. Now, you are in a castle that thrives on fire—fireplaces in every room, candles and torches as lighting, fires underneath cauldrons and from the mouths of bang-ended skrewts… It’s not hard to imagine the constant stress and panic that would result from such an environment.”

“It’s… hard. It gets harder the more I think about it—like I don’t notice the fire until I do, and then it’s all I can think about.”

“Not many people can say they’ve survived a house burning down around them, Harry, but you’re not alone in experiencing flashbacks and everyday triggers. Trauma, of all kinds, lingers in the shadows of many people’s lives.”

“I don’t want to be _weak_ like this,” Harry said, spitting the word. “I’m tired of always collapsing and freaking out and ruining things.”

“If someone else were to have a panic attack—your friend Ms. Lovegood, for example—would you blame her or think less of her?”

“No,” Harry said. Of course he wouldn’t—Luna, who had lived through so much pain but kept such a kind face nonetheless, was so strong and brave. A panic attack wouldn’t diminish that, only show how much she had survived.

“Then why are you somehow an exception? What makes you more special?”

“Nothing.” Harry hated being thought of as special or unique or whatever else people tried to tout about him.

“Exactly. Allow yourself the liberty to feel things, to be hurt and upset, to forgive your body for its reactions to fear.”

“Oh.”

Snape smiled gently. “Harry, would it be alright if we continued speaking somewhere more comfortable? I am not quite accustomed to sitting on dungeon floors.”

Still a bit embarrassed at having broken down so completely in front of his professor—again—Harry flushed and nodded. He allowed Snape to help him up and then followed him to the back of the classroom, where Snape muttered something and tapped the wall. A shadow of a door that hadn’t ever been there before solidified itself on the wall, and Snape opened it, gesturing Harry inside.

“The dungeons work in funny ways,” Snape said to Harry’s amazed stare as they entered a small sitting room. “There are at least half a dozen entrances to my rooms throughout the dungeons, all of which lead to this same door. It’s quite useful for reaching home quickly, though I have to concentrate on where I want to be when I leave. Otherwise I can end up in the wrong spot and have quite a long walk ahead of me.”

Harry smiled shyly and examined the room. It was walled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the stone floor was covered by a thick Persian rug. As with nearly all the rooms in the castle, there was a fireplace on one wall, but Snape casually flicked his wand in its direction, snuffing out the flame. Snape guided him to a royal blue armchair large enough for Harry to curl up into—after kicking off his shoes, of course. His professor summoned a tea tray and began steeping a pot of tea.

“What blend is this one?” Harry asked. He’d grown accustomed to Snape’s tendency to use tea as a coping mechanism in social situations during their meetings at Privet Drive.

“Eleuthero root with notes of passionflower and chamomile,” Snape said, passing a cup to Harry who accepted it gratefully and wrapped his fingers around the warmth. “Stress relief for a tentatively stress-inducing conversation.”

“Is this gonna be bad?” Harry’s breathing hitched again and he fought to bring it back down to an acceptable level. He already looked and felt like shit, and Snape had just seen him babble and cry and whatever else—the least he could do was avoid having another panic attack.

“No, Harry, I apologize; I do not mean to cause you undue ill. It will be challenging, for me in particular I presume, but it will not be bad.”

“Oh.” Harry turned his teacup around in his hands, running his finger over the rim. “W-what is it, then?”

“You spent the summer recovering with Aberforth. I know that you still deal with aftereffects from the fire—that much is clear from today—but would you say that Aberforth, in some modicum or measure, helped you grow or heal?”

“I suppose.” Harry shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t really want to talk about his mental health or psyche or whatever with anyone. “It was good, I mean. Being safe, being somewhere… happy.”

“But you still need help.”

It wasn’t a question, and Harry didn’t pretend it was. He set the cup down before his trembling hands spilled anything. “I—yes,” he said in a small voice. “I feel… _broken,_ Snape. I’m trying, every day I’m trying so hard, but it’s never good enough. Even when things are okay, like this last week things have felt better than in a long time, but even then I still fuck up and break down.”

“That’s okay, Harry,” Snape said, and leaned forward intently. He was sitting across from Harry, separated by a coffee table. “You’re allowed to break down. I’m not trying to pass judgment. I’m merely concerned, as are Lupin and Black and, I am certain, many others who have your best interests in mind.”

Harry blushed.

“Though you may not know it or trust it as such, there is in fact a small group of people you have collected who are very much concerned for you and want only the best. And all of us, from all walks of life and histories—even if we grew up loathing each other, as is the case with your mutt and I—are willing to put our pasts behind us in order to help you.”

“If—if you really care so much, why haven’t you… why’ve you just ignored me all term?”

Something like regret flashed across Snape’s face. Harry looked down.

“I am _sorry,_ Harry. I am not… I have never been the strongest at dealing with emotions, those of myself or of others. Since our time at Privet Drive—since before then, quite frankly, since I first met you at Aberforth’s—I have had to come to terms with the idea that you are not the person I believed you to be. It can be hard to progress beyond assumptions and long-held grudges.”

“But I thought you’d moved past those… ages ago. I didn’t think it was really a problem. Especially not after the fire.”

“You are correct; many assumptions were shattered as soon as I stepped into Privet Drive for the first time and saw how your aunt and uncle treated you. However, it took me far longer to re-assess my own relation to you, my own position in your narrative. You are aware of the part I must play; you understand the fine balance I must maintain.”

Harry nodded, unsure he’d be able to speak even if he had something to say.

“Choosing to associate myself with you, then, became a monumental choice. One I was willing to make, even so far as to offer my home, small though it is, to you over the summer. I was… I was prepared to potentially destroy my identity as a spy for the Light in order to take care of you, to help you heal. And I would have, had Aberforth not volunteered first.”

The last words were said with a fair amount of bitterness, and Harry blinked up at his professor. What was he trying to say? That he had… that he had _wanted_ Harry? Been upset when someone else had claimed him first?

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“I—” Snape took a deep breath, and his mask of indifference, which had slid severely over the past few minutes, fell back into place. “I had been willing to give up everything to help you, but as soon as Aberforth volunteered I saw the danger I had nearly placed the both of us in. You could not survive in a house with an ex-death eater, with someone as dark as I have become. It would have been unfair to place you in my care, a great moral disturbance.

“Further, I saw clearly how unfit I would have been. As you know, I am not skilled in communication, in empathy, in many of the things necessary for your recovering health. Aberforth, while also not the strongest in those areas, provided a safe outlet for you. A place to grow without repercussions, without barriers to hold you back.

“I became convinced that I could not help you in any fashion. That I would be bad for you, that I would cause more harm than good. I retreated into myself, reassured in the idea that you had someone else to care for you. I forgot, of course, that Aberforth was no more equipped than I was—that in fact, he understood even less than I did. He, after all, has never been a confidant of the Dark Lord, has never known the threat and allure that He holds.

“I made a great mistake in withdrawing from you, Harry, and it grew only more difficult once we returned to Hogwarts. I forgot whose fault it was that we were no longer in confidence as we had been last year, and chose to believe it was _your_ choice to distance yourself from me, that you were conscious of our separation and thought it best.”

Snape finally paused, letting out a deep breath. He seemed deeply uncomfortable with all he had said.

“But I didn’t,” Harry whispered. “I… missed you, as stupid as that sounds. I liked talking to you last year. I liked learning from you, and t-telling you things.” For some ridiculous reason, Harry felt close to tears again, and curled further into himself. Snape conjured a handkerchief and passed it to Harry. “I thought you… I thought you were tired of me. That you hated me again.”

“No, Harry,” Snape said, voice laced with genuine regret, “I was merely a fool, as I have been known to be, a fool unable to process his own emotions and come to terms with what was needed. Not just what was _needed—_ that is a crass way to express it, because I do not want to help you solely out of necessity, but because it seems essential to me, critical to my being and to the future.”

Harry blew his nose and laughed soggily. “You sound like my snake.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I have this er… snake. Familiar. Pet. I guess. She talks like that, too, like she’s bound to me or something.”

Snape frowned. “I should very much like to meet her and examine your so-called bond at some time, if you will permit that. However, I am not trying to express anything so particular. Rather, I am trying to reassure you that, if you are willing and amenable, my continued conversation and assistance is not only available but is freely proffered, too.”

“For someone that claims to not be good at talking, you just talked a _lot._ Like, a _lot._ ”

“I will accept your attempt at deflection for now, Harry. I know I have thrown quite a lot at you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Harry said. “I’m glad you talked to me. I was worried for so long, but this was good. I understand what happened. Y-you’re right that Aberforth was good, but not… enough, I guess. We talked about it at the end of summer. We both know it wouldn’t last, that I need something else if I want to get better. It’s not so much the panic attacks that scare me—I don’t think they’ll ever go away, honestly, I think they’re just a part of me—but the… all the You-Know-Who shit. The memory loss, the dissociating, the things he said… Nothing’s happening now, sure, but I know it will. I know he’s just biding his time or whatever until he’ll strike, and then it’ll be agony all over again.

“And being a horcrux, too, that’s not something Aberforth even wanted to talk about. It’s Dark magic, and he couldn’t even really accept that was a part of me. I don’t like it, I bloody well hate it, but I need, I need to understand it. To understand myself. It’s another part of me, mentally, that’s blocked off and broken apart. I need help with that.

“It feels like I change every day. One day I can’t be apart from my friends without breaking down, the next I want nothing more than to be alone. And speaking of friends—I stole Ron and Hermione’s _memories._ I did that to them. That’s… that’s _evil,_ even if I didn’t mean to do it. Even if it was just V—You-Know-Who doing it through me, that was a part of me. I can’t just forget that. You’re afraid you’ll hurt me because you’re Dark, but I’m already so full of darkness myself it wouldn’t even make a difference.”

Snape laughed, quick and biting. “I suppose that is true,” he acknowledged. “You have certainly dealt with many more Dark areas of magic than most.”

“It’s just hard to, to admit that I need help,” Harry said. “To tell someone I’m hurting, that I’m struggling, that I don’t think I can go much farther without breaking down and giving up entirely. I’m not used to trusting people, especially adults. Especially adults who are in charge or responsible for me.”

“I don’t expect your full trust now, or ever,” Snape said, and met Harry’s eyes once more. His eyes were dark and clear, and looking into them Harry felt calm. Understood. “But Harry: please be honest. _Are_ you hurting? _Do_ you need help?”

And the tears came again, and this time Harry didn’t try to stop them. “Yes,” he said, throat tight and painful. “Yes, I need help. It’s so hard. It’s so hard. I don’t know what to do, I think I’m going crazy, yes, yes, yes, it hurts, yes, I need help.”

Snape looked shocked even as he moved forward, but suddenly Harry was wrapped in a hug, arms tight around him.

“I need help,” he said again, muffled into Snape’s shoulder. “I need help.”


	6. Chapter 6

The first task dawned gray and murky, angry in its austere silence. It matched Harry’s nerves, riddled with holes and shivering in his body. He could feel each cell inside him vibrating against the others, his body a kaleidoscopic mountain of fear and anxiety. All he wanted was to disappear back into his dorms, bundle up in some blankets, and read a book or take a nap until it was over.

He knew what Snape would say, of course. _Avoiding one’s problems doesn’t make them any less dangerous or likely to dissolve you in a burst of flame, Potter. Pay attention._ They’d had a lot of conversations over the last few days about responsibility and anxiety and all sorts of disgusting things Harry didn’t want to bother thinking about.

_You can rest after you’ve impressed the entire wizarding world. For now, focus on your plan and your intentions._

So Harry focused, allowing Luna and Ginny to glue themselves to his sides during breakfast and force tea and toast down his throat. It tasted like chalk and burnt the roof of his mouth; already uncomfortably aware of heat and flame, the tender skin against his tongue seemed like a bad omen.

Malfoy came up to him towards the end of breakfast, sneering at the two girls sandwiching Harry. “Best of luck to you, Potter,” he said coldly, extending a firm hand. “May the true Hogwarts champion win.”

Bemused, Harry shook his hand, trying to read Draco’s face. His eyes, shadowed by his hair—he’d been growing it out, Harry noticed, and the long locks framed his cheekbones well—were inscrutable. “Thanks, Malfoy,” he said. Draco just grimaced and moved along, shooting a last glare at Luna, who was smiling pleasantly up at him.

“He’s always so lovely,” she said. Ginny snorted into her porridge.

“I don’t get what you see in him,” she said, reaching across Harry to poke Luna in the side.

“Lots of love—didn’t I just say?”

“He’s a prat.”

“I never disagreed with you on that count,” Luna said, and they laughed, even Harry—before his nerves caught up with him once again.

“It’ll be alright,” Ginny said earnestly, squeezing Harry’s hand. “It’ll be over before you know it, and then we can relax and do something nice. Maybe you can sneak us into Hogsmeade to celebrate.”

Harry groaned. “I don’t think I’ll want to do anything but sleep,” he admitted.

“Well, then we can do that,” Luna said. “Make a big pillow fort somewhere and nap all day. I’ll invite Draco if you want.”

Harry blushed. “If I want? What about you?”

“I’ve got Ginny, of course.” Luna smirked at the blush crisping Harry’s cheeks, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Just teasing, Harry. Sorry.”

“’S alright.”

He looked up at the staff table and met Snape’s eyes. In the smallest moment, he saw the smallest hint of concern—it comforted him more than he wanted to admit. He gave a quick nod, reassuring Snape he was okay. As okay as he could be considering the terror rippling through him.

After his colossal breakdown in Snape’s rooms, they'd had dinner together. Harry had been too unsettled and fragile to go anywhere else, and Snape fortunately didn’t have any other classes that evening.

They’d set up some small things to help Harry. _Coping skills,_ Snape had called them.

“Trauma affects us all in different capacities,” he had said. “But it does not have to destroy us.”

Harry needed a support system, Snape had said. He was part of it, as were Luna and Ginny, and Aberforth, and Remus, and even Sirius.

“Write them down,” he’d said. “Remember the people you can rely on. Remember the safe places you have.”

It felt kind of stupid to Harry—he already _knew_ who his friends were. Duh. But strangely enough, writing it down helped. He folded a piece of parchment into the front of his journal and carried it with him everywhere, a constant reminder of the things he could trust to help him if he needed it.

“You have spent your life relying on yourself to save you,” Snape had said. “Unable to trust your guardians—with just cause. But that’s not sustainable, Harry. We need to find alternate methods of coping, of moving forward. You cannot continue to push everything away.”

“I don’t,” Harry had insisted. “I'm dealing with things.”

“Really? Where are the Dursleys? Have you begun to process what happened to them or what happened to you in their care? For that matter, have you even begun to process what happened to you in the care of the Dark Lord?”

Harry had paled. He had thought of the Dursleys often, of course, but the mere thought of them—wherever they were—caused his hands to shake and his nerves to take flight once more. He did his best not to remember Voldemort at all. Snape had smirked, accepting his win as graciously as ever.

“Ultimately, though,” Snape had admitted, “I am not a professional. I am not an expert. I cannot save you on my own any more than you can continue on as you have been.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Harry—and I am not saying this must happen any time soon, but it _should_ happen as soon as you are willing—you need professional help.”

“Are you saying I’m crazy? Nuts, just because I—”

“No,” Snape insisted before Harry could keep talking, “I am saying that terrible, deeply harmful things have happened to you that would affect anyone negatively. I am saying that there are people out there—trained, confidential resources—that can help you process and understand what you are going through better than I or Lupin would ever be able to.”

Harry had scowled. “What if I don’t want help?”

“If you are not ready to see a therapist or mind healer, I cannot—and will not—force you. That would be once more removing you of your agency—more harmful than helpful, I am sure. I will do my best to help you, Harry; it is youwho must make the decision to move forward in the healing process, regardless of how that occurs.”

It had been a lot, and Harry—as always—decided to put it aside for a bit. At least until after the first task, just so he could achieve not dying before he bothered to think about therapy and how fucked up everything was.

Before he knew it, he was down at the tents, waiting for the first task to begin.

The other contestants seemed as nervous as he was, though they showed it in different ways. Cedric paced back and forth, the length of the tent, over and over again. Krum scowled and snapped at anyone who tried to talk to him. Fleur alternated between babbling for minutes and not talking at all. Harry just shook and breathed and did his best not to pass out.

They drew dragons from a bag. Harry got the Hungarian Horntail. Nettles hissed her displeasure from the hood of his robe where she lay, curled in the warmth of the fabric.

One by one, the other contestants left. Harry barely heard their fights against the dragons, the roar of blood in his head far louder than the distant roars of the dragons. By the time it was his turn, the food in his stomach had turned to lead and every part of him felt both numb and electrically charged at the same time.

He stepped out into the arena, ignoring the boos and cheers that rushed through the crowd. The gong went off, and the task began.

Instead of moving towards the dragon, who was hunched possessively around her eggs, Harry stepped backwards, climbing a craggy boulder until he reached eye-level with the dragon. He was far away as to not pose a threat, but close enough to address her.

“Right,” he breathed, and Nettles slithered from his hood onto his arm, hissing contentedly as the crowd ooh-ed and aah-ed at her appearance. “Ready, girl?”

In response, Nettles nodded her head, coiled around Harry’s wrist, and extended forwards towards the dragon. The Horntail cocked her head and focused on Nettles, who began hissing in a different tone than Harry had ever heard. Some of it sounded familiar, but for the most part it was too deep and guttural for Harry to understand. This was some deeper dragons’ tongue that Parseltongue didn’t extend to. It hadn’t made sense when Charlie had explained it, but Harry was content to trust his familiar’s communication skills.

The dragon switched its focus to Harry, meeting his green eyes with her own piercing brown ones. She seemed to stare straight through him, and then, to the awe of both Harry and the rest of the crowd, she bowed and retreated backwards.

“ _What happened?_ ”

“ _Sylvie—that is the dragon’s name, I quite like her very much—has agreed to let you remove the yellow egg from her nest. She says it is cold and she does not like it anyway. She does not want her other eggs to be harmed._ ”

“ _They’re real eggs?_ ” Harry asked, shocked that the tournament would endanger so many future dragons for the sake of the competition. Weren’t they endangered? He ignored Bagman’s magically magnified cry of, “Is Potter speaking to a _snake_?!” Instead, Harry focused on sliding down the boulder back to the ground, where he began making his way—slowly, cautiously, non-threateningly—towards the nest. Despite the dragon’s quick acceptance of his proposition, he didn’t want to risk any shocked or surprised reactions.

“ _You’re sure this is okay,_ ” he asked Nettles again, who spoke once more to Sylvie. In answer, the dragon picked up the golden egg in one claw and, awkwardly shifting her weight to maintain her balance, extended the egg towards Harry. The crowd gasped.

It took Harry less than five minutes to accomplish the task. No blood was spilled. No one was hurt. Beyond the reveal of Nettles and use of Harry’s Parseltongue abilities, nothing remotely exciting happened.

“Well,” Bagman was commentating, “Potter has certainly bested the former contestants’ times, finishing nearly fifteen minutes before any of the others—however, marks for showmanship and extravagance must be considered, too…”

But Harry didn’t care what Bagman thought, didn’t care what any of them thought—this wasn’t a game he was willing to play; he would cheat through it if he had to, win by only the easiest means. He didn’t care if the audience was bored—he had won, without hurting himself or Nettles or the dragon, and that was what mattered.

He was chatting happily to Nettles, who seemed to have a slight crush on the dragon, when the red flash of a curse hit the ground near his feet.

“Death eater scum,” a voice from the crowd screamed, and another jet of light shot towards him. On instinct, Harry ducked and rolled, back into the center of the arena. His thoughts, which seconds before had been blissfully clear and light, were a chaotic jumble of alerts and red flags, caution lights signaling every which way. And then there was another curse, and a dragon was roaring, and everything was hot again, and he saw the familiar boards of the door to his cupboard, and he could hear someone screaming, begging for help, and the world faded into the comfortable black of unconsciousness he was growing more and more used to.

↠

Remus had been able to convince Sirius to stay away from the first task, which was, in hindsight, the best thing he’d ever done.

If Sirius had seen this—Harry, collapsed in the center of the arena, defenseless against an unknown assailant, crying and huddling into himself—he’d have gone crazy. There was no way he’d have been able to handle the stress of watching Harry talk to a fucking dragon and then be attacked from the crowd. Remus could barely handle it himself.

By the time he made it down to the arena, Minerva and Severus were there too, and a boy was being dragged from the crowd. The rest of the spectators were happily abuzz with all the drama, and Remus wanted to kill them. Rip them limb from limb for their ignorance, their callous indifference to Harry’s pain and suffering. Hadn’t the boy done enough for the wizarding world already? What more did he have to live through?

Remus was prepared to run to Harry, but Severus caught his arm and pulled him backwards. “The dragon,” he hissed, and sure enough, the Horntail was prowling possessively around Harry’s body, flicking its many-barbed tail against the ground. A few steps closer and he could have been impaled.

“What do we do?” Minerva asked. Her face was white, her hair falling loosely from its usual stern bun.

Severus did not respond, instead calling out, “Nettles. Nettles, can you hear me?”

The name—Harry’s name, Remus dimly remembered from Sirius’ confessions—brought forth the snake Harry had used, slithering from Harry’s hood. It looked at Snape as if it understood him.

“Nettles, can you ask the dragon to step back?”

The snake shook her head.

“We need to assist Harry. Please.”

Nettles shook her head again, hissing something urgently.

Severus knelt to the ground. “Please. We will not hurt him. We only want to help.”

The snake turned to the dragon and they ‘spoke’ once more—Remus wouldn’t pretend to understand how any of this was happening. He just wanted to get to Harry, to make sure he was safe.

The dragon slowly settled onto the ground, relaxing its tail. It rested its head a few measures away from Harry’s—it would not hurt him, but it would not leave, either.

“Thank you,” Severus breathed, and then moved forward to sit next to Harry. He did not touch him. Remus tried to step closer, to reach for Harry, to reassure him as he whimpered and cried, but Severus cast him backwards once again.

“Severus, what—”

“Set up protective barriers,” Severus said, voice devoid of its usual bite. “Stay close, but do not touch the boy.”

It dawned on Remus then that something had changed since his last conversation with the potions professor. No longer was he reluctant to help Harry or scared of his position in the boy’s life; rather, he was determined to help him. In fact, Severus was perhaps the only one who knew what to do in this moment.

So Remus turned from Harry, heart aching, and began to cast silencing and curse-protection charms, as well as a general disguising enchantment to hide the arena from view. There were too many unfamiliar faces in the crowd, and any one of them could be a death eater or a supporter; if they were to relay that it had been Severus Snape to help Harry—Severus Snape alone, not as a professor but as someone who cared—the results would be devastating. And yet Severus hadn’t hesitated to run towards Harry, in front of all of these people, in front of the world.

Poppy arrived moments later, bustling towards them with her medical kit and looking anxious.

“What does he need?” she asked, assessing the situation in front of her. Severus still hadn’t touched Harry, but his hand was splayed next to Harry’s as if he could mentally wish the boy into grasping it. He was talking—chanting, really—a running repetition of mindless reassurances. He had cast cooling charms around Harry, but still he cried, and whimpered, and could not be brought to conscious presence.

“Sedation,” Severus murmured. “We cannot calm him here.”

The snake was coiled around Harry’s neck; it jerked its head in a sad nod at Severus’ words.

Severus had to grab Harry to give him the potion. At the contact, Harry jerked backwards, breath coming in ragged gasps. A force of magic seemed to burst from him, pushing back against the wixen crowded around him. Remus had to take a step back from the sheer strength of it.

“Oh God,” Remus said, choking on a sob, and Minerva pulled him into a hug. He’d seen Harry’s small panic attacks, of course, but not a full flashback, and he ached to watch him suffer.

Severus moved quickly, pulling Harry up and tilting the potion into his mouth. Harry shook and cried but was forced to swallow, and seconds later, he was still.

Poppy levitated him to the castle, the three of them trailing behind her.

“Who was it?” Remus asked once his mind settled enough to remember what had happened beyond Harry’s pain.

“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” Minerva said, voice tight. “Fourth year, Hufflepuff. He was petrified in his second year, and it appears he never shook his fear of Harry.”

“He attacked him because he spoke to a snake?” Remus asked incredulously.

“He attacked him because Finch-Fletchley is a coward,” Severus spat, ignoring Minerva’s look and scowling at them both. “Harry was the one to _save_ Finch-Fletchley from a snake, and it was the youngest Weasley who opened the chamber—if the boy had any brains at all, he would have remembered that.”

“What will happen to him? Expulsion?” Though Remus could not condone any attack or hate speech against a student, he understood the irrationalities of fear.

“With any luck,” Severus snarled.

“I am sure Albus is making that decision as we speak,” Minerva said mildly, shooting Severus a concerned look. “But I do not believe we will condemn a child to a lack of an education today; after all, isolation would only further his prejudices.”

Severus glowered but said nothing. Remus got the feeling he was missing part of the conversation and continued walking down the corridor.

↠

Luna was tired of seeing Harry in the hospital wing, but at least he wasn’t in a coma this time. Ginny sat next to her at his bedside, squeezing her hand tightly.

“He always looks so fragile,” Luna whispered into Ginny’s hair.

“He’s strong,” Ginny reminded her. “He’ll be okay.”

“Always am,” Harry croaked.

“Harry!”

He gave them a half-grin, eyes squinting against the light. “Did I blank out again?”

“I think so,” Ginny said, “but we didn’t see a lot. The professors set up some charms or something so that no one could tell what was going on.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

“You fought a dragon,” Luna said. “A whole dragon!”

“I didn’t really fight her, though. I didn’t want to. I just asked nicely.”

Ginny giggled. Luna smiled—that was the Harry she knew and loved. “My hero,” she teased.

“What happened, though? Afterwards? Did someone… who tried to curse me?”

“Some stupid fourth-year Hufflepuff,” Ginny said angrily. “Justin Finch-Something. Thought because you used a snake you were evil and a death eater and whatever—Professor Flitwick stunned him and took him away. I dunno what happened after that.”

Harry blanched. “Is he going to get in trouble?”

“Shouldn’t he?” Luna asked.

“No, I hope not,” Harry said. “I mean… maybe a little bit, but it’s not—I understand why he’d be afraid. He thought I tried to kill him second year, too.”

“All the more reason for Mr. Finch-Fletchley to have learned his lesson,” came a sneering voice from behind them, and Luna turned to see Snape striding towards them. He was always so good at being spooky. She smiled and waved at him. “Mr. Potter. How are you feeling?”

The generally caring and considerate question came out snide and disinterested from Snape, but Luna knew better. She’d seen him run to Harry before the charms had gone up over the arena. She knew the professor was probably just as worried for Harry as she and Ginny were.

“I’m okay, I think,” Harry said. “I don’t remember a lot, other than getting through the task. And then someone tried to curse me, and then the dragon—well, I dunno what happened, but there was fire and I freaked.”

“Yes, that is the abbreviated story,” Snape said, still standing over them. He was too stiff and professional to conjure a seat next to Ginny and Luna, she knew, but even so he looked uncomfortable.

“Did I have another flashback, then?”

“I am not sure that is the best word for it any longer, but yes.”

“What’s a better word for it?”

“Perhaps that is something to discuss at another time.” Snape shot a look towards Luna, who smiled benignly. Whatever he didn’t want to say in front of her and Ginny was perfectly fine.

“We can leave you alone, Harry,” Luna said. “We just wanted to be there when you woke up and make sure you were doing okay.”

“Er, yeah, thanks guys.” Luna stood and kissed his cheek, ignoring Harry’s blush. She ruffled his hair. “Luna—I’m not a baby!”

“No, you’re just too cute,” Ginny said, and they waved goodbye.

In the corridor, Ginny turned to Luna with a smile on her face. “Professor Snape really cares about Harry, doesn’t he? Even though he’s hated him all these years?”

“I don’t think he ever hated him,” Luna said. “Or—maybe he just _thought_ he hated him. Or thought he _had_ to hate him. But Professor Snape is really a very nice man.”

Ginny snorted. “Right. Sure, Luna.”

Luna just sighed and took Ginny’s hand in hers. She didn’t know why it was so hard for other people to see what she saw.

↠

“So, what would you call it?”

After Weasley and Lovegood left, Severus conjured a chair and sat next to Harry’s bed—an all too familiar scenario, he thought with distaste.

“I am not entirely sure your flashbacks are brought on by your own consciousness.”

“What d’you—oh. The horcrux?” Harry’s words lowered to a whisper, the fear obvious on his face.

“Perhaps. What was it the Dark Lord said to you that day?”

“ _Time to rebuild,_ ” Harry said. “But then he just disappeared.”

“Or went dormant. I am not convinced he is not still pulling the strings behind your conscious mind.”

Harry looked sick at the thought of the Dark Lord still inside his mind without his knowledge; Severus did not blame him.

“But what good is making me flip out every time there’s a fire going to do?” he asked skeptically. “Why not just convince me to go dark and kill all my friends and off myself or something?”

Severus felt a thrill of fear at the thought. “Do not speak so lightly of self-injury,” he said. “This is serious.”

“I fucking know it’s serious—it’s my head, isn’t it?”

Severus sighed. “Yes, Potter, it is. All the reason more you should take caution when speaking of yourself—you are not the only one listening. Do not feed him ideas.”

Harry paled even more. “Oh.”

“However, I do not believe the Dark Lord seeks an end to your mortality; after all, that would mean an end for one of his protections, as well. Right now, you are far safer to him alive.”

“So why the triggers?” Severus held back a small smile at the term, knowing Harry had gotten it from their short discussions on mental health.

“Perhaps it is a fail-safe mechanism, gone faulty as all his internal alterations have. He intends for you to remain safe in all situations, to avoid harm as much as possible—and so your body reacts uncontrollably to identified threats. In this case, your biggest presumed threat is flame.”

“So, even if I do therapy and whatnot, I’ll still freak out no matter what,” Harry said, looking angry.

“Perhaps. It is just a hunch.”

“Can’t you look in my brain like last year and find out?”

“It is not so easy,” Severus said regretfully. “For one, now that we have more knowledge on the Dark Lord’s position in your consciousness—even if most of it is conjecture—I am highly reluctant to endanger the both of us by making my position known to him.”

Harry looked as if he was about to say something stupid like an apology, so Severus kept talking.

“Further, I am disinclined to believe that I would be able to find anything. If I have correctly interpreted his statement to you—‘time to rebuild’—then he was reworked the frame of your consciousness. The familiar forest we walked through has been burnt to the ground, and he has built up a new framework of his own invention. He will be hiding quite well, and I believe to find him would be to further endanger the safety of your consciousness.”

“So I’m just stuck with him,” Harry said, glaring at his hands. “I just have to live with having a faulty brain forever, and deal with the memory gaps and the anxiety and the freak outs and just be _fine._ ”

“No,” Severus said. “No; there are always other options. You do not have to be _fine._ You can still grow and become stronger and healthier and _happier_ in the future. We may not be able to change the Dark Lord’s presence, but we _can_ work together to move past it, to carry on despite it. Or perhaps because of it.”

“Together?”

Severus wanted to curse the hopeful look on the boy’s face.

“Together,” he reassured him. “You are not alone, Harry. Not by a long shot.”

“Okay then,” Harry said. “Thanks, Professor.”


	7. Chapter 7

“ _The next time I am in danger, you have to trust the black-haired scary man and the other humans._ ”

“ _No._ ”

“Nettles _._ ”

Nettles looked like a child sticking out their tongue. “ _The dragon was going to help you. I was going to help you._ ”

“ _I appreciate that, Nettles, but come on. I need humans to help me, too, and they can’t understand you the way I can. They didn’t know if you were safe or not. They could have hurt you._ ”

“ _As if I would let any human harm me._ ” She sounded indignant, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“ _You’re a water snake! You’re tiny and barely the length of my arm. What are you going to do?_ ”

If Nettles had been a human, she would have harrumphed. “ _Don’t insult me, young one._ ”

Harry sighed. “ _Nettles, I’m sorry. I just need you to understand what_ I _need. Snape had to help me._ ”

“ _Fine. I will trust Snape. But not the others. You are all too loud and big and chaotic for me._ ”

“ _I guess that’s good enough._ ”

“ _But I want to see Sylvie again. She was magnificent._ ”

Harry groaned exasperatedly. Nettles was never going to get over her crush. “ _I’ll see what I can do,_ ” he promised.

↠

“I sorted Nettles out for you—if it happens again, she’ll let you get near.”

“Thank you,” Severus said, hiding his offense that he’d even had to ask the snake for _permission._

“I have a question.”

“When do you not?”

Harry just laughed and pushed on, ignoring Severus’ face. Impertinent. “If you thought I was being possessed—or inhabited, or affected, or whatever—by You-Know-Who, how come you didn’t put me in a coma like you did before?”

Severus blinked. “Would you want that?”

“No!” And then, calmer, eyes down to the ground, “No. I wouldn’t. That was terrifying and awful and I hated it.”

“Precisely.”

“But then… why’d you do it in the first place? Surely you knew how much, how bad, how terrible it would be. What even _was_ that?”

Severus was surprised it had taken this long for Harry to broach this subject, but then again, it made sense. The boy was traumatized by a dozen different things and a lot had happened since last year’s disaster of a treatment plan. And particularly because it had been Severus himself—and Albus, though Severus knew the blame lay primarily with him—to have inflicted such pain and trauma onto Harry… well, it was hard to address hurt with those who have harmed you.

And even harder for Severus to apologize, to explain.

“That treatment… it was born out of another individual’s need to distance themselves from the Dark Lord. To, as is the potion’s intent, freezethe Dark Lord out of their consciousness. To separate themselves so thoroughly that, after the potions have run their course, he is no longer attached or bound to the person in any way, shape, or form.”

“You invented it.”

“Yes.”

“For yourself?”

“Perhaps eventually, in another timeline, I would have attempted it, but no. It was for… a friend. Another servant of the Dark Lord who found themselves with a mark they did not want, a loyalty they did not trust, and a lord they did not love.”

“Was it Regulus?”

Severus’ head snapped up, eyes dark with pain and anger. Before he could calm his expression, the damage had been done: Harry flinched. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Severus stretched out a hand on the coffee table between them, infinitely grateful when Harry took it. He may not like personal touch, but it was something Harry needed, and he was growing to accept it. “Do not be sorry, Harry. It is I who is sorry. You have every right to ask questions; I will not harm or ridicule you for them.”

Harry scoffed, and Severus quirked his lips. “Well, perhaps a touch of ridicule. But it is not in anger. Yes, I invented the treatment for Regulus Black. He was a year below me in Slytherin, and we were both young, far too young, when we signed our lives to the Dark Lord. He could not handle it, could not bear the things he was forced to do, to become.”

“Did it work for him?”

Severus bowed his head. “In a fashion. It blocked the effect of the Dark Mark, returning it to a faded tattoo rather than a cursed mark that would call and control him. It reduced the power the Dark Lord held over him—mental and emotional power, the simple ability of coercion and manipulation. Nothing necessarily magical, but simply the aftereffect of years of lies and torture and brainwashing. Afterwards, Regulus felt clean,his mind clear for the first time in years.”

“Then why didn’t it work for me?”

“Because the Dark Lord is a part of you, connected by more than association. His bond to you was not voluntary; it was forced on both sides. The horcrux that binds you cannot be distilled in any fashion known to me. The potions were bound to fail from the start.”

“Then why did you try?” Harry asked, and Severus ached to hear the pain in the boy’s voice.

“I was a fool. Albus, too, was a fool, both in how he treated you and how he treated me. Had I known more about the situation, had he shared his knowledge with the both of us, that would not had happened. You should not have been hurt like that, Harry, and we both owe you apologies, the size of which can not be rectified in the near future. I put your life in peril without your consent or understanding of the situation.”

“I’m not angry, sir,” Harry said.

“You should be,” Severus said. “You are too kind, too forgiving, and it will be your ruin.” Harry quirked his lips and they sat in comfortable silence, drinking their teas and staring at the small candles on the coffee table. It was their second day trying to get Harry used to fire again with gradual proximity; they’d tried matches the first day, which Harry could watch but could not bear to hold. The candles seemed to fare better; Harry practiced placing his palm a few inches above the flame, just close enough for his skin to warm in the glow.

“Sir?”

“Ask your questions.” Harry’s eyes were nervous. Severus couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken pleasure in putting such fear in the boy’s mind—not that long ago, of course, but it felt like ages.

“What happened to Regulus? Sirius… Sirius told me he died.”

Severus inclined his head. He took a deep breath. He imagined the calm space in his mind, the craggy seaside with mist-tinted skies and the gentle call of birds. He remembered the feel of hands on hands, skin tinged with sun and salt and peacefulness.

“He abandoned the Dark Mark and all it stood for. I helped him relinquish his hold on the dark arts, but it wasn’t enough. The Dark Lord found him and made an example of him.”

“I-I’m sorry, sir.”

Severus shook his head; it was not Harry’s apology to give.

“W-were you there?”

“Was I—when the Dark Lord killed him, you mean? Yes, Harry. He made all of his followers watch.”

Harry’s face was pale and sad, as if he wanted to apologize again. Severus was immensely glad that he refrained, that instead he picked up the candle and, with a deep breath, ran his hand over the flame again, closer this time.

He was glad, too, that he hadn’t told Harry the full truth—that the Dark Lord had forced him to hurt Regulus, too. That he’d had to look into his partner’s eyes and curse him, cut him, watch him bleed out. Regulus had begged for mercy, then, pleaded for Severus to help him, to save him, and the Dark Lord had laughed. Severus had cried—he could not hold the tears back any longer—and the Dark Lord had cursed him, too, and when he gained consciousness again his body was still wracked with pain and Regulus was dead next to him. Their blood had mixed in the dirt beneath them.

He had buried Regulus there, too afraid and ashamed and alone to do anything else. He hadn’t told anyone, and the next time the Dark Lord summoned them there was no mention of Regulus or what had happened—Severus had been punished, and that was that.

Two months later, he sent a message to Albus Dumbledore, begging for help.

↠

Not only did Harry have to compete in two more ridiculously dangerous and stupid tasks, but he had to dance at a fucking ball, too.

Cedric told him about it. McGonagall had told the other victors after the first task but, being rather unconscious at the time, Harry had been left out of the loop.

The conversation with Cedric had been more than a little awkward. He’d run up to Harry in the courtyard, brushing off the gaggle of Hufflepuffs that had been walking with him.

“Hey, Harry,” he’d called, windswept and pinkcheeked and all-smiles. “Can I talk to you?”

He’d walked them over to an abandoned corridor.

“I just wanted to let you know, er. Well. Sorry. I talked to McGonagall and asked her and she said—” Cedric cut off, looking flustered. Harry stared, somewhat bemused; he’d never seen the Hufflepuff this out of it before. “Well, it’s like this: basically-we’re-only-allowed-to-go-to-the-ball-with-girls-and-not-boys.”

“Huh?”

“We can, er, only go with girls. Not boys. She said it’s based in tradition, and what not. I mean, obviously Fleur has to go with a boy, not a girl. But boys… can only go with girls.”

“Okay?”

Cedric stared at him and then blushed straight tomato. “Sorry, did I get this wrong?”

“What d’you mean?”

“It’s just—I mean, I’m bi, and I really wanted to go with Benjamin Hughes, you know the bloke from Slytherin? But I can’t so I’m going with Cho Chang instead, the Ravenclaw seeker, ‘cuz she can’t go with her girlfriend either. And I thought—I must’ve read you wrong, mate. Sorry!”

Harry had no idea what to say. Cedric thought he was gay? Cedric was bi?

“Er, it’s okay,” Harry said, blushing too.

“No, I shouldn’t’ve assumed, and—god, I’m really sorry! Ah. Sorry. Can we just forget this?”

“Sure,” Harry said.

But he didn’t forget. He couldn't forget. During class, before bed, in the library with Ginny and Luna—no matter where he was, at the most random times, it would pop up. Cedric had thought he was _gay_?

“Do I seem gay?”

Luna spluttered and choked on her butterbeer; they were spending their Saturday afternoon at the Three Broomsticks, a respite from the cold weather and the stifling castle. “What?” she asked between hoarse choking noises.

“Do I seem gay?”

Ginny pat Luna on the back, holding back her own laugh. “Why do you ask?”

Harry blushed. “Cedric thought I was gay; he said I wasn’t allowed to invite a boy to the dance.”

“Why would he think that, I wonder,” Ginny said, her eyes full of fire and laughter.

“I don’t know!” Harry was getting frustrated. He felt angry. He felt annoyed.

“Oh, honey,” Luna said. “Harry, hon, I’m sorry—we didn’t mean to tease you.”

“I did,” Ginny said.

“Okay, yes, we did. But, honestly… yes. You do.”

“How?” Harry asked, feeling exhausted. “Why? What do I do to stop that?”

“Have you considered that maybe… you _are_ gay?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry said.

“Is it?”

“I… I can’t be gay. I’m not—I’m not like that.”

“Do you have a problem with us being gay?” Ginny asked, holding Luna’s hand. “Do you have a problem with Charlie being gay?”

“No! Not at all,” Harry said adamantly. “I know there’s nothing wrong with it, even though the Dursleys… well, their opinions have never been the nicest, have they? But I love you guys; I think you’re wonderful.”

“So why can’t you even considerthe idea that you _might_ be gay?”

Luna’s question shook him, reached into his heart and squeezed it tight. Maybe he was gay. Maybe he was gay. He was trans, after all—why not be gay, too? But something in him cut like a knife, felt raw and bleeding and coldIt jumped back from the word, pushed it away.

“I don’t know,” he finally said.

“Who’s cuter, me or Charlie?”

“I—Ginny, don’t ask me stuff like that!”

“I won’t be offended,” Ginny said. “Just be honest.”

“I… Charlie, I guess,” Harry muttered.

“What’s cute about him?”

“I like his hair. And his freckles. And his arms are… well, big. And he’s got nice hands. And his voice is gentle, and low. And when he smiles… it’s really nice.”

Ginny smiled triumphantly. “So there you go.”

“That can’t be it, though,” Harry said desperately. “There has to be more to it than that! I don’t… I mean, I don’t want to kiss Charlie or anything. I don’t want to kiss anyone!”

“Well, you don’t have to,” Luna said. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to be in a relationship of any sort to know what sort of people you like.”

“I like girls,” Ginny said, “And Luna likes everyone. And you… I think it’s safe to say you’re pretty solidly into blokes.”

Harry thought about it. “Really?”

“Really, really.”

“Is that why you always talk about Malfoy around me?” he asked Luna.

“Obviously.” Ginny rolled her eyes.

“I thought you knew—at least a little bit,” Luna said. “I’m sorry it’s so hard for you to think about.”

“It’s fine, I guess,” Harry admitted. “I probably sort of always knew, maybe. But the Dursleys… they hated gay people. I thought… I dunno, maybe part of me still thought I could be normal in at least one way to them.”

“Oh, Harry.” Luna hugged him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You’re not normal at all. You’re _wonderful._ ”

That was hard for Harry to believe, but he hugged Luna just as tightly as she did, and let the conversation drift on.

They spent the rest of the day together, visiting Zonko’s and some of the other stores to get Christmas gifts for their friends. On the way back, Ginny asked who Harry was going to invite.

“I wish I didn’t have to ask anyone,” Harry admitted. “Cedric said he’s going with Cho Chang, who's a lesbian I guess?”

“Yeah. I mean, duh,” Ginny said. “She’s hot and clearly butch.”

“Oh. Well.” Harry felt likes this was all way over his head. 

“Neville invited me,” Ginny said. “I don’t think he knows I’m gay, but I also don’t think he likes me that much. He just really likes dancing. You should take Luna!”

“Yeah? Would you be all right with that, Luna?”

“Oh, yes,” Luna replied dreamily. “I already made my dress. It will match your dress robes.”

“Er.” Harry wasn’t quite sure what his dress robes even looked like, so he just nodded happily and decided to trust her judgment. “That’s sorted, then. Great. Good.”

“I’m sorry you can’t take Draco,” Luna said, patting his shoulder.

“I don’t even likeDraco!”

But, Harry realized that night, he _did_ like Draco. The Draco he’d known last year, the one who sucked at chess and wrote bad letters and pretended he didn’t care about Harry even though he did. He didn’t like this year’s Draco, the one who slunk around secretively and ignored everyone and told Harry one thing but did another.

He liked Draco very much indeed. He just wasn’t sure where _his_ Draco had run off to. This new one was no fun at all.

↠

Aberforth hadn’t come to visit Harry at all that term. He’d responded to Harry’s first letter, reassuring him and giving awkward wishes of happiness and reduced anxiety for the rest of the year. But after a few weeks, his life fell back into a normal routine, as if Harry had never stayed with him at all.

The goats noticed his absence, of course—their diets were significantly more interesting when the boy was around. Some of the guests at the Hog’s Head noticed, too. Ruth and Jeanie especially bemoaned his absence, complaining that Aberforth was far less fun without a teenager running around to keep him on his toes. They’d grown fond of Harry’s energy. Without him, things at the pub were darker, more melancholic.

Or maybe it was just that Aberforth’s old age had finally caught up with him.

Either way, he missed Harry quite a bit, and was overjoyed to see him and his friends come bubbling in through the door one Hogsmeade weekend.

“Aberforth!” the boy yelled, running to the bar to greet him. His ears were red from the cold, and snow was melting on his hat and coat.

“Hey, kid,” he said fondly, ruffling his hair. The other students—two girls, who he thought he remembered from Harry’s stories—studied Aberforth intently. “Hello,” he said to them, nodding his head awkwardly.

“Hello, sir,” the blonde one said, extending her hand for a handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Er, same to ye,” he said. “Please don’ call me sir, though.”

“That’s Luna,” Harry said happily. “And that’s Ginny Weasley. It’s been so long!”

“Yeah, it ‘as,” Aberforth agreed. “It’s good to see ye.”

“How’ve you been? What’s been going on? How are Ruth and Jeanie?”

They stayed for well over an hour, and by the time they left Aberforth felt far lighter than he had in months. Harry was healthy, and if he wasn’t quite perfectly happy, he was doing his best. He had enough to deal with, after all; he couldn’t be blamed for lacking the extreme exuberance of most of his peers.

And his two friends were good for him—kind and supportive but still able to tease him and call him out. That was good, too. Harry needed people to be stable and strong for him. The others—Ron and Hermione, that he’d talked about a lot before—were good too, but not as consistent. Harry needed strength, loyalty, infinite understanding.

He’d found that in more people than just Luna and Ginny, though. It seemed Snape had finally stepped up and done what he should’ve done a long time ago. Good. Harry hadn’t said much, but when Aberforth had asked after the professor, the boy had seemed more genuinely happy than any other point in the conversation. 

It was high time the great git did something worthwhile with his life; helping Harry was the best possible thing Aberforth could imagine. Maybe he’d include him on his Yule gifts this year.

↠

Luna thought Harry looked quite handsome, despite his obvious nerves.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asked for the thousandth time, tugging at the tie around his neck.

“You look just fine,” she reassured him, folding down his collar and then smoothing her own dress. She’d chosen a shimmering blue dress for the dance, one that she’d embroidered around the collar and hem. With the help of a few embroidery charms, images of rabbits and butterflies and fairies flitted around the fabric, dancing in a field of wood sorrel and wildflowers.

Harry’s outfit, in contrast, was much simpler. Quite drab, really, but who was she to complain?

“I can’t wait for this to be done with,” he muttered, and she laughed.

“Lean into the experience,” she said, and he grimaced. She squeezed his hand; he squeezed back.

“Right. Let’s do this.”

The first dance was awkward. He stepped on her feet quite a lot and his grip was rather sweaty but Luna enjoyed herself anyway. By the third song—which was much more upbeat—Harry had relaxed a little and was actually swaying to the tune instead of just shuffling around. He’d even smiled once or twice.

“See,” she teased, “it’s really not so bad.”

“I’d still rather talk to a dragon.”

↠

Harry spotted Malfoy dancing with Pansy Parkinson across the room; he was wearing pale sage-tinted robes that shone under the dazzling lights, and when he spun the right way they flipped up and faded dark at the ends in some sort of magical mirage. Had they been on speaking terms, Harry would have mocked him for spending his galleons on magically enchanted dress robes. Then again, Luna’s robes had dancing rabbits on them, so maybe it was normal.

Was Malfoy gay? He’d never really considered it. Did he want to be dancing with Parkinson, or would he have preferred to have gone with a bloke? Blaise Zabini, maybe, or Theodore Nott.

Even though it wasn’t allowed, Cedric was dancing with a tall, handsome Slytherin—Benjamin something or other, the boy he’d mentioned during his conversation with Harry. Cho, his real date to the ball, didn’t seem put out at all; rather, she was giggling ferociously with another Ravenclaw girl, their heads bent close together as they danced.

Was everyone here putting on an image?

“D’you wanna meet up with Ginny and Neville?”

“Ooh, yes,” Luna said dreamily, “That would be quite lovely.”

“Great. I think I see them by the drinks.” Harry towed Luna behind him toward the other couple; he was sweaty and hot and wanted a break. Maybe Luna and Ginny would get a chance to dance together, and he and Neville could just relax. Harry wasn’t sure where Hermione and Ron were—come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure they’d gotten partners to the dance. He hadn’t really been paying attention.

Sure enough, Luna and Ginny were overjoyed to see each other and quickly vanished back onto the dancefloor. Surprisingly, they invited Neville with them; he followed behind them a bit bemusedly, waving helplessly at Harry.

“Enjoying yourself, Mr. Potter?”

Harry started and looked up to see Mr. Crouch, one of the judges for the task. “Er—yeah, sir,” he stuttered, “Just catching my breath.” Something about Crouch rubbed him the wrong way; he was always staring so intently, eyes deep and thoughtful.

“Would you mind a quick word, Potter?”

“Er—”

“Completely customary, of course. I meant to speak with you after the first task as I did with the other contestants, but you were rather unconscious at the time.”

Harry blushed. “Right. Sure, that’s fine.”

Crouch walked towards the corridor, and Harry jumped to follow him. He’d assumed they could just talk there; apparently not.

“Well, Potter,” he said once they were outside the Great Hall. “Given your surprising use of a foreign animal during the first task, we have elected to introduce a new rule: no communication with or use of external creatures.”

“Oh. Sorry, sir, I didn’t think…” Harry hadn’t exactly poured over the rulebooks to make sure what he’d done with Nettles was legal.

“It was unprecedented, but not disallowed—until now, that is. It’s been ruled an unfair advantage.”

“Yes, sir.”

Crouch studied him for a long while. Harry shifted back and forth on his feet.

“Er,” he finally said. “Do you mind if I go find my date? She’ll be wondering where I am.”

This wasn’t strictly true—Luna was more than likely enthralled by Ginny and Neville and completely unawares that Harry was anywhere at all—but he was growing uncomfortable talking to Crouch.

“Very well,” Crouch said evenly, face betraying nothing. “Enjoy the ball, Mr. Potter. And do be careful in the next task.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

With Crouch staring after him, Harry had no choice but to walk back into the Great Hall. The noise and heat of the room pushed him backwards; it was like there was a barrier between the corridor and the hall, and he felt dizzy and overwhelmed by all the chaos he’d just stepped into.

After a few minutes, he figured it was safe to retreat back to the dorms without Crouch noticing. He wasn’t sure why he was so bothered by the man, but something about him rubbed the wrong way. Harry ducked back out of the hall and made his way towards the stairs. On his way, though, someone reached out from a doorway and pulled him in.

“You _really_ have to stop doing that,” Harry hissed at Draco, shaking himself free of his grip.

“How else am I supposed to get your attention? You’re too oblivious to notice anything else.”

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

The blond boy looked peaky and exhausted, just as he’d been all year.

“Just fancied a chat,” he said.

“Sure.”

They were in an empty classroom. Moonlight seeped in from the windows, but other than that it was dark. Muffled laughter and cheer could be heard from the corridor.

“I just… well, I’m sorry it’s fucking like this,” Draco said. His voice broke halfway through and it made Harry’s heart ache.

“Is this an official meeting?” he asked. “Should I be your friend or not? I don’t know how to act around you anymore.”

“I know,” Draco said, wincing. “I’m sorry. Please, if you can… be my friend.”

It wasn’t even a choice. Of course he could be his friend; he'd never really stopped. 

“Where’s Parkinson anyway?”

“Dunno. She got tired of me after the first dance and disappeared,” Draco admitted, shrugging.

“Are you two dating?”

Draco let out a little laugh. “Is this seriously want you want to be talking about?”

 _Yes,_ a part of Harry whispered. He ignored it.

“I don’t want to push you,” Harry said softly. “I don’t want to make this harder on you than it has to be. Whatever this is.”

"It's all so fucked up," Draco said. "It's all... I don't know what's happening anymore. It's all out of control and I hate it. I hate it."

"Talk to me," Harry said gently. "Tell me."

And Draco did. 

“Last winter, when my father was gone, he was finding _him_ , I think. Went abroad. Maybe Albania? I’m not sure, I just hear whispers from the house elves and mother. And Dad found him, because ever since this summer, he’s been staying at my home. My father… he’s taking care of him, or something. He’s creepy, Potter, like a shriveled baby, and father has to feed him and tend to him. I can’t even describe—he’s awful.” Draco gulped, inhaling deep gasps of oxygen. His eyes were wide and manic.

“It’s okay,” Harry said when Draco paused again. He wasn’t quite sure why he was trying to comfort him but didn’t question it too much. “Take your time.”

Draco scrubbed his face with his palm and then continued. “He called me in to his rooms. Father was there, and mother. They wouldn’t look at me. He—the Dark Lord—said I had to prove myself to him. Said I had to help him. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t say no. I said… I said yes.”

“What did he ask you to do?” Harry asked, but he already knew.

“To be your friend. That’s all he said at first, just befriend you. Said he wanted me close to you. I knew it was for something bad; I knew he’d make me… hurt you, somehow.”

Draco still hadn’t cried. Harry wanted to, desperately, but the tears were for Draco, not for himself, and he didn’t think it would be fair.

"Has he said anything else?"

"Not to me. But he's planning something, and my father... he's just as scared as I am, I think. We're in too deep, Harry. I want to, I want to run away from it all. I want to wipe my memories and be a boy who doesn't know a damn thing about the Dark Lord or his evil plans to, to kill you. And I don't want you dead, Harry, I don't."

"I know you don't, Draco. You're bloody infuriating and don't make sense nearly at all, but I know that somewhere, deep down, you're nicer than you think."

Draco groaned. “I wish I wasn't," he muttered. "It would make things so much fucking easier." 

Harry reached for his hand. Draco stared at Harry for a while and then slowly, warily, accepted it. His hand was cool and soft to the touch.

“I passed along what you told me at the world cup,” Harry said, remembering the feel of Draco shoved against him, hot breath blowing into his face. The way Draco was always more honest at night, and alone. The space between them felt sacred, a space for secrets. “I think he’d help you, if you asked.”

“What about my family?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “Would they turn against Voldemort?”

Draco shivered. “They don’t like him,” he whispered. “I know that—they’re scared of him. I think they're too frightened to leave.”

“And would you leave them?” Harry couldn’t imagine doing that, willingly abandoning his parents for his own safety. He’d do anything for his parents, even if it meant staying with an evil asshole and doing his evil asshole-ish bidding. But maybe Draco…

“No,” Draco said. “I don’t think I would. I… I love them, Potter, even if I shouldn’t. I know they’re—I know they’re fucked up. They were Death Eaters before; it wasn’t imperius or whatever else my father tries to pretend it was. They believe in that shit. But I love them anyway. I’m sorry.” He hung his head.

“Don’t be,” Harry whispered. “I understand. I’d do the same, honestly. You can’t abandon your parents.”

Draco sniffled. “Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t thank me yet. I still have no clue how to help you.”

“This helps, I think. Just… listening.”

“I always wanted to listen, you git,” Harry said. “You just told me not to fucking talk to you.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Harry flicked Draco’s palm. “Stop apologizing.”

“What am I supposed to do, Harry?”

“Have you talked to Snape?”

“Do you really trust him? My parents are friends with him; I know he was a Death Eater before.”

If Draco had expected an ounce of surprise from Harry, none was forthcoming. “I know,” Harry said. “But I really do trust him. With my life. He’s the most decent professor I know, even though he’s a bastard—if that makes sense. Plus, he’s played both sides; he’ll know what to do. You don’t have to tell him what side you’re on if you’re really scared, but I honestly think it’ll be fine.”

“Played both sides?”

“Yeah, like Dumbledore’s and Voldemort’s. Both teams. Dark and Light, good and bad, whatever you want to call it.”

“I don’t think I’m on either side,” Draco said.

“Where are you, then?”

“Your side,” Draco said softly, “Whatever and wherever that is. I don’t care about Dark or Light. I don’t trust any of them.”

“But you trust me?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” Draco said. “Yeah, I think I do.”

They hid in the room for a while, listening to voices pass by. The moon really was beautiful, Harry thought.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for some gore, torture (reference, not pictured)

Harry hadn’t been expecting any horrific or terrifying Christmas gifts, but he really should have. Last year’s present from Voldemort—a bloody photograph of his parents and a vaguely threatening note—had been bad enough.

This was far, far, far worse.

After the yule ball, most everyone had disappeared. On Christmas Eve, Harry was the only Gryffindor left in the building—all the others had gone home at least for a few days to be with their families.

Harry hadn’t spent much time in the dorms this holiday, preferring to roam around the dungeons and bother Snape every spare chance he got. There was the added benefit of being able to check up on Draco, too, who had once again remained at the castle instead of going home (but hadn’t talked to him since the dance, the bastard).

So it was quite a shock to step into the common room on his way up to bed after dinner and see two figures silhouetted by the fireplace. He very intentionally didn’t react to the fire, which—because there was no one else to want it lit—hadn’t been lit all day.

“Hello?”

The figures didn’t respond. They didn’t move. Cautiously, Harry stepped closer. Bracing himself, he stepped in front of them, his back to the fire. The warmth prickled uncomfortably against his skin, but he soon forgot about the flames once he saw who was sitting by the fire.

Harry screamed.

The figures—the bodies—belonged to his aunt and uncle, both considerably… _different,_ to when he had seen them last.

They were both thinner; Aunt Petunia, who had always been unhealthily thin, wasn’t much more than skin and bones. Literally—he could see their bones in places, the flesh ripped from them so thoroughly that the white shone through.

Their eyes were open. That was the worst of it, he thought—they still watched him, still glared and loathed and hated, even in death. Because they were _dead,_ which he realized belatedly was the true shock of seeing them. Surprisingly devoid of bloodstains, but still dead. Mouths agape, eyes wide, skin pale and shriveled, bodies absent of life.

The panic receded enough for him to see the folded parchment clasped between Aunt Petunia’s fingers—of which only four were left.

Harry _knew_ he needed to get help, to call Snape or McGonagall or Dumbledore, but all he could do was crawl from where he’d fallen in front of the fire towards the armchairs, his body moving in spite of his frozen mind. It took unimaginable strength to wrestle the parchment from his aunt’s grasp, his own hands trembling as his arms stretched feebly towards her. Her wrists were broken, he saw, hands twisted around the opposite way, bending in reverse. He shuddered, tears running down his face as he took the paper.

_Dear Harry,_

_A very merry Christmas to you, child. I deeply regret not speaking with you this year as often as in the past; I have missed your wit._

_My gift to you—revenge. Relish this image, sweet Harry; I know you have dreamt of it often._

_Yours faithfully, yours forever,_

_Lord Voldemort_

Harry’s mind wasn’t functioning. All he could really think was that he’d never expect Voldemort to be this invested in the holidays; Harry certainly wasn’t. He wondered if James’ family had even celebrated Christmas.

He didn’t know what to do. He was numb, straight to the core. Voldemort thought he wanted _this_? Maybe he did. Maybe Voldemort knew what was inside him better than Harry did himself. He’d already known he was dark and ugly—maybe this was the truth of his soul.

Was he sad that his aunt and uncle were dead? Would he miss them? Did he hope they were somewhere beautiful, like heaven or whatever?

No, not really.

Did that make him a terrible person?

Was this his fault?

Where was Dudley?

Strangely enough, Harry didn’t have a panic attack or lose consciousness. He just slumped against an armchair—one thankfully devoid of mutilated corpses—and stared at the image of what used to be his family. The fire cast shadows on their bodies, flickering and distorting their shapes until they were hardly recognizable as humans. They became melted candles in Harry’s eyes, wax dripping from their bodies onto the floor. His gaze blurred and unfocused. He focused on breathing. He focused on the numb, endless whirring inside his head. He focused on his heartbeat, steady in his neck.

He waited for Snape to come and save him.

↠

Severus found Harry thanks to a house elf. Dubby, or Dobby, or something. It appeared in his quarters, yelling about the Gryffindor common room.

“Bodies, sir, bodies in the chairs! And Harry, sir, Harry is seeing them and not moving!”

He should have known. The Dark Lord was always a sap for holiday traditions. Severus didn’t hesitate; he extended his hand and allowed the elf to apparate him to the Gryffindor tower.

A man and a woman sat in armchairs by the fire. Harry, slumped against another chair, stared dizzily up at them. His eyes were hollow, faded somehow, and the fire sparkled in the dull glaze of his stare.

“Get Albus and Poppy,” he snapped to the house elf. It disappeared with a nod and a snap.

“Harry.”

Severus sunk to his knees and checked Harry’s wrist for a pulse. It was there, thrumming merrily along, but Harry was near catatonic. He didn’t react to his voice, but he did flinch at the light touch.

“Harry, it’s me. Professor Snape. I need you to remember your body, okay? I need you to focus on my voice.”

Harry’s breathing stuttered. Severus waved his hand and extinguished the fire in the mantel, leaving the room considerably darker. He ignored the bodies in the chairs, focusing solely on the boy next to him.

“Harry, can you try and squeeze my hand? It’s okay, I’ve got you. There’s nothing to be scared of here. It’s just you and me, I promise.”

He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying—as always. Helping Harry never got easier, it just got more familiar. Harry’s hand didn’t move. Snape squeezed it anyway, trying to give any reassurance he could.

“We’re safe. We’re in Gryffindor tower and there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just you and me. Take all the time you need, Harry. Deep breaths, in and out. That’s right, just like that. You’re doing well.”

Harry blinked rapidly, eyes wetting. He sucked in a breath.

“I’ve got you, Harry. It’s okay.”

The boy’s eyes finally moved away from the bodies to Severus’s face. They were desperate and searching. Haunting. Severus didn’t let it affect him, remaining neutral and calm.

“There you are,” he said, smiling softly.

Harry burst into tears.

“I’ve got you,” Severus said, folding Harry into his robes. The sobs wracked the boy’s body, but he just held him tight. Harry was here, he was present, he was safe. It would be okay.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again. “It’s all going to be okay.”

↠

According to Poppy’s diagnostics, the Dursleys had died only hours before Harry had come across them. Dumbledore couldn’t identify how their bodies had managed to get within Hogwarts’ boundaries, and didn’t have any good answers for Severus or Harry as to what had happened. The house elf—Dobby—was the only one cleaning the Gryffindor common room anymore thanks to some liberating knits by Granger; he hadn’t been in all afternoon or evening and had called for Snape as soon as he’d seen Harry.

Harry was in shock, so Severus was doing the best he could to actually care that the Dursleys were dead in his place. Frankly, he couldn’t care less that their miserable existences had been cut short, but he knew Harry would want answers as to what happened. There was also the issue of Harry’s cousin still out there somewhere, either dead or close to.

“Their bodies indicate slow torture over the period of months,” Poppy said, her voice smooth and distant despite the warm hand on Severus’ shoulder. “Likely at the hands of Death Eaters on behalf of You-Know-Who.”

“How did they die?” Dumbledore asked.

“In the end? Shock, though I would guess their bodies were enchanted to remain functioning past general Muggle limits. The blood loss alone should have killed them far earlier.”

Dumbledore hummed. He, too, didn’t seem all that bothered by the dead Muggles in front of him; his face bore the appropriate level of concern for a person who, perhaps, had just discovered a cat’s hairball on his favorite pillow.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, “Can you confirm the handwriting of the parchment?”

Severus studied it once more. He kept his face carefully blank. “It does not belong to the Dark Lord, headmaster. However, based on estimations of his health, it’s safe to assume his hands do not function at the level necessary for handwriting at the moment.”

“Do you recognize the scribe?” Dumbledore saw past his response for what it was. Severus sighed.

“The handwriting belongs to Lucius Malfoy, Albus. However—”

“You believe he is acting out of desperation for his family and not out of genuine desire to serve Lord Voldemort; yes, I understand, Severus. I am watching the Malfoys carefully—both Lucius and young Draco.”

Severus didn’t appreciate being interrupted. “I merely—”

He was distracted by a whimper from Harry’s direction. Poppy had helped put him to sleep for a bit earlier, but it seemed he’d awoken once more.

“Harry?” Severus moved to the side of his bed and sat, looking down at the boy’s face. His eyes were open, but he didn’t seem to be present. “Are you with me?”

“Mrrmph.”

“Eloquent,” Severus said dryly.

Silence, and then: “Are they dead?”

“Your relatives? Yes, Potter. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s faced screwed up in pain. Severus took his hand. Dumbledore stepped closer to the bed and spoke.

“Harry, my boy, I’m so terribly sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine the sorrow you are feeling. While I do not want to interfere with your own healing process, I would like to ask a few questions.”

Harry stared up at the headmaster.

“Headmaster, surely now is not the time,” Severus said sharply. “He needs to rest.”

“It will not take more than a few moments, Severus,” Dumbledore said.

“I really don’t think—” Poppy said, but Harry interrupted.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, “I can talk.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore said, and he reached out to pat Harry’s unattended hand. Harry flinched away from the touch. Severus felt a thrill of pride rush through him; _he_ at least was trusted. “Can you tell me how you found them?”

There wasn’t much to tell, in the end. Harry found them in the chairs, took the note from his aunt’s hand, and waited in numb agony until Snape arrived.

“How did you feel when you read Lord Voldemort’s note?” Dumbledore asked, his voice mild and kind.

“How did I feel?” Harry laughed a little. “How do you expect me to feel? Cold. Scared. Angry.”

“You did not feel grateful, or thankful for his gift to you? You are confident in your reaction?”

“Of course I wasn’t grateful. He’s an asshole. I know he’s just trying to get a reaction, trying to convince me to like him or whatever. I don’t appreciate _murder._ I know what he did was wrong and I’m certainly not happy about it, sir.” Harry’s eyes were shadowed as he spoke, though, and Severus wondered if there was more to the story. He wondered why Dumbledore even asked the question—what place did emotions have in this?

“Thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore finally said. He reached to pat Harry’s hand one more time but seemed to think better of it and pulled back before they touched. “I will leave you to rest. Feel free to come see me if you ever need to talk.”

Harry snorted but didn’t say anything. The headmaster swept from the room.

“You need rest _,_ Mr. Potter,” Poppy said. “That is the first step in all this mess.” She set a small vial of dreamless sleep on the table next to him; Harry eyed it distastefully.

“It makes my tongue feel funny,” he said.

“I think we will accept that consequence in trade for a night of uninterrupted rest,” she said primly.

Strangely, Harry looked up to Severus as if for confirmation. Severus nodded once, bemused, and watched as Harry ducked down the potion, grimacing and swallowing loudly.

“Gross,” he said.

Severus sat with Harry until he fell asleep. As the potion did its work, dripping down into the boy’s consciousness and spreading calm through his limbs, the boy began to cry softly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled, looking towards Severus with pain in his eyes.

“Whatever for?”

“I’m not sad that they’re dead. I’m not happy, either, but I don’t miss them. I’m sorry I’m not good. I wish I could feel sadder.”

Severus shushed him and used a handkerchief to wipe away the trails of tears. “Don’t,” he said. “I am _proud_ that you aren’t sad. You have no reason to be. Now, rest.”

That was an easy command for the boy to follow; he was already asleep.

↠

Harry felt fine the next morning. Perfectly fine. He wanted to see Draco.

“Can I leave?”

“No,” Madame Pomfrey said primly. She took his pulse and then conjured some tea.

“But I’m fine,” Harry said, the fine stretching out into a whine. I’m fiiiiine.

“You don’t know what you are,” she responded. “You’ve experienced a trauma.”

“When haven’t I?” Harry rolled his eyes and sniffed the cup of tea proffered to him. “This isn’t one of Snape’s blends.”

“No, it’s from Tesco and laced with a potion to make you shut up and leave me in peace for at least an hour.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. He preferred Snape’s teas—this was tasteless in comparison, whether Pomfrey was lying when she said it was laced or not.

“Can you at least ask if Draco will come see me?”

“I’m a trained medical professional, Mr. Potter. Not an owl for you to send to your little friends.”

Harry groaned. Madame Pomfrey smirked at him and patted his head. “Your books are by the table; feel free to study if you need something to do.”

Harry really _was_ fine. He didn’t remember much of yesterday. He knew the Dursleys were dead and had been tortured horrifically for months by the Death Eaters. To be honest, he’d expected as much long before their bodies had appeared in the common room, so it wasn’t too large of a surprise.

He just felt numb. Disinterested in behaving or playing along with Pomfrey’s rules, he waited for her to go back to her office and then called out softly, “Dobby?”

With a pop, the house elf arrived by his bedside. “Harry sir! Are you feeling betters?”

“Yes, Dobby, thank you for finding me. How are you?”

The elf looked aghast that Harry had asked and scrambled onto the foot of his bed. “I am very good sir! Professor-headmaster Dumbledore was so kind to give me a job here even though no one else was hiring me, sir!”

“Have you been working here for a while then?” Harry felt vaguely guilty for not knowing Dobby had been at Hogwarts.

“Just since the beginning of the year—the professor-headmaster hired me and one another elf, Winky. We is helping in the kitchens and the cleaning, and Mr. Dumbledore is good enough to be paying me!”

“That’s good, Dobby, I’m really happy for you. Do you like it here?”

The elf squealed and bounced on the bed. His ears flopped up and down. “Ohhh yes Harry Potter sir, I am enjoying it very much. Winky not so much—she is missing her old master and is very sad. But I am liking being paid and being able to explore a whole castle!”

Harry wasn’t really sure what all went on with house elves; Hermione had been distraught when she learned they were the ones who kept the castle running but none of the other students or staff seemed that bothered by it. Dobby seemed happy enough.

“Hey, why’d you call Snape to come find me anyway? Why not McGonagall first?”

“You was calling for him, Harry Potter. You was not responding to me and instead just calling for Professors Snape, so I went to him first. Is you wanting me to call Professors McGonagall first?”

Harry couldn’t remember asking for Snape; he remembered _wanting_ him there, knowing he’d be able to help, but surely McGonagall would’ve helped too? “Er—no, that’s okay. Snape is fine.” Dobby beamed. “Listen: the reason I called you… d’you think you could get Draco to come up here?”

Dobby’s face soured. “The rotten Slytherin boy? The son of Lucius?”

“Er.” Harry had completely forgotten Dobby’s old family. “Yeah. Sorry. He’s… I swear he’s better than his father.”

“I do not like him, Harry Potter sir. I think he is very bad no good at all, but I will take him here.”

“Thank you, Dobby. I… blimey, sorry. I appreciate it. He’s changed a lot.”

Dobby looked doubtful but vanished anyway. Moments later, he reappeared with a disgruntled Draco.

“What the fuck, Potter?”

“Relax, no one’s here,” Harry admonished. “Thank Dobby, will you?”

Draco looked down at Dobby with a sneer but said thanks anyway.

“You is a bad boy, Draco Malfoy! I am not trusting you. I will not be letting you hurts Harry Potter.”

“Well, good—keep him safe,” Draco said. “Him above me.”

Dobby stared at Draco for a beat longer, saluted Harry, and then disappeared.

“What’s going on then, that you have to summon me with a stupid house elf?” Draco sat down on Harry’s bed in the same place Dobby had recently been bouncing. “Why are you in the hospital wing again?”

Harry told him the basic facts. Dead relatives, shock, panic, Snape found him, whatever. He was relieved to see Draco’s face pale with fear and shock. Relieved that Draco hadn’t known.

“I swear, Harry,” he breathed, “I didn’t know he would do that. I had no idea what he was going to do. I’m so sorry, I—”

“Wait—but you knew he was going to do _something_?”

“I—” Draco choked and ducked his head. He wiped his face. Harry stared at him, not understanding. Not wanting to understand. “He told me to, to, to Floo-call my father. I did, and then Father wanted to come through the fire. He said he needed to speak with someone. I… I thought it was just business.”

“Who did he say he was going to talk to?” Harry thought he should be more angry, but what was there to be angry about? Draco was just doing what they told him to. He hadn’t known.

Draco was still pale and shaky. He looked so _guilty._ Harry wanted to reach for his hand and reassure him somehow, but he still felt numb.

“Mr. Crouch. That ministry man, the judge. I just thought… I’m sorry.”

“I mean, we don’t know if that actually had something to do with it,” Harry pointed out.

“Of course it did! Father had access to the Floo, then, and I bet he could connect to the Gryffindor tower if he wanted to. He might’ve… he might’ve even had the bodies with him when I talked to him. Shrunk them, or something.”

“That’s possible?”

“Obviously, Harry, we’re fucking wizards.” Draco’s reprimand was half-hearted and broken. “I’d bet anything it was him.”

“But why Crouch?”

“He might not have anything to do with it,” Draco said. “Maybe Father just lied to me; I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Maybe,” Harry said, but he was doubtful. He couldn’t shake how uncomfortable he felt around the man.

“You have the worst Christmases.”

“Well, I dunno if my parents even celebrated or not, so it doesn’t matter that much.” Harry’s memories of Christmas were mainly contained to his cupboard, flashes of Charlie Brown or the Grinch, and Aunt Petunia complaining about shopping.

“They did.” Snape appeared in the doorway. He was carrying a small, wrapped box. “Your mother was in love with the holidays; it was her favorite season.”

Harry and Draco both stared as Snape walked in and sat next to Harry’s bed. “Has Madame Pomfrey allowed you visitors already?” He cocked his eyebrow, and they both flushed.

“Sorry, sir,” Draco said respectfully. He hopped off Harry’s bed, nodding and casting a curious glance at the box Snape was holding. “See you around, Potter.”

Harry missed the warmth by his feet. His bed felt too large without Draco sitting at its end.

“Was she Christian, then?” Harry asked.

Snape smirked. “No. She didn’t put much stock in the infant Jesus. But she appreciated the spirit and camaraderie. Ever an optimist, Lily Evans.”

“And dad?”

“I don’t believe he was a Christian, either, but he adored the holiday. He had abhorrent choice in gifts.”

If it had been anyone other than Snape, Harry would have said he fidgeted uncomfortably in that moment. But Snape didn’t fidget—he was cool, calm, collected. No matter what.

“I am hoping that, unlike your father, my selection is slightly enhanced.” He extended the small box to Harry, who took it reverently.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Now?” Harry was scared; he’d never opened a gift in front of someone before. “Are you sure?”

“It won’t bite, Potter.” Snape leaned forward slightly, looking expectant.

Carefully, Harry slit the wrapping paper and unwrapped it. He didn’t want to look messy or uncaring in front of Snape.

It was a cube of well-polished wood, honeyed and shining in the light. There was no lid or construction to it that he could see, but as he ran a finger over the top, a seam appeared and then cracked open.

“It’s very cool, sir,” Harry said.

“It’s what’s inside that matters, Potter,” Snape said, smirking.

Feeling stupid, Harry opened the box to find a set of vials, all filled with a clear potion. They smelled vaguely of the alcohol swabs in the nurse’s office after Dudley and his troupe would beat him up.

“You have waited long enough to begin your transition,” Snape said softly, his voice careful and a tiny bit hesitant. “I have consulted with Muggle and wizard sources alike to create this potion.” Here his voice took on a reverential tone; he was proud of this. “It creates the same effects as Muggle testosterone serum at a slightly faster rate. They will be permanent, as opposed to some of the temporarily-modifying potions already in the books.”

Harry sucked in a deep breath, feeling overwhelmed. “Wow,” he said, and then said it again. “Wow.”

“I realize you have had—yet again—a terrible incident. I should have waited. You are not in the right frame of mind—”

“No,” Harry said quickly. “This is perfect, sir. Really. This is… wow. It’s amazing.”

Snape looked worried but nodded.

“How do I take it?”

“It is an oral potion, to be taken each morning. A capful is sufficient. Three vials should last you three months, at which point I will provide you with a new set.”

“God… thank you, professor. Really, this is more than I ever imagined. This is wonderful.”

Snape smiled. It was small and vanished quickly, but a smile nonetheless. Harry’s grin was large enough for them to share.

“Will you show me how to make it?”

Snape looked taken aback. “Would you truly be interested in the process?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “This is so cool! I mean—to blend Muggle and wizard stuff, to create something entirely new—that’s wicked, sir. I’d love to learn how, if that’s okay.”

Snape appraised him for a moment and then nodded. His eyes were bright.

“I mean, this won’t hurt me like your last set, right? No terrible side effects or anything?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Snape said, seeming serious despite Harry’s attempt at a joke. “Though perhaps we should keep you in the hospital wing for a few more weeks until we’ve established your safety.”

Alright, maybe not so serious then. 

“Uh, I think it’ll be alright, sir.”

“If you truly do not trust my creation, then—”

“I do,” Harry insisted. “I do trust you, I swear.”

Snape’s eyes met Harry’s quickly, flashing in surprise.

“Sorry—did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Snape said. “It is just that after all this time, after all I have done, I am shocked that I have earned your trust.”

“Well, I do,” Harry said, shrugging defensively, “trust you, that is. You’ve been decent to me. Dobby said I was calling for you last night; I don’t even remember that, so I guess I must really trust you. You… you’re the only adult that’s ever been for me all the time.”

“What of Aberforth?” Snape said in disbelief. “Did he not care for you all summer?”

“He did… But he doesn’t want to _talk_ about things. And he didn’t… he didn’t _do_ things for me. You give me things, things I need. And you… help me, if I’m panicking or scared or whatever I was last night. You’re patient. You listen. He would try, but it wasn’t… enough. We both knew it, in the end.” Harry was trying very hard not to blush. He could feel Snape studying him but ignored his gaze, instead playing with the blanket on his lap.

“I am glad.”

“Why?”

“A year ago, you did not know what you deserved. I am reassured that you know, now, what true care is. Your relatives were despicable creatures; they did not teach you what you needed. But now you know.”

“Now I know,” Harry echoed in wonder. Snape was right, wasn’t he? The Dursleys had never taught him love, or understanding, or empathy. They hadn’t taught him what it was to be a family, to be a part of something. He still didn’t know, not really, but he knew enough to _want_ it. To crave what he’d never had before.

“Thank you, sir, for the potions,” Harry said again. “Can I start today?”

“I see no reason why not.”

Harry grinned, and popped open the first vial.

The potion was bitter and thick; it felt cold and sludgy as it went down his throat. Even so, it was absolutely perfect.


	9. Chapter 9

When Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Gryffindors came back after Christmas, Harry didn’t bother to mention the dead bodies that had so recently occupied their common room. It wasn’t worth it, really. He didn’t have the energy to explain it all.

Classes didn’t interest Harry any longer. He found himself daydreaming and doodling and drooling more than actually paying attention. Hermione was enraged, but he didn’t really mind.

As the sun drew heavier in the sky and the ground began to soften beneath their feet, Harry thought of Aberforth and his garden. He missed the sweet honeysuckle, the fresh dew in the morning, the nattering birds that swooped here and there over the crop. He missed the goats, and the oatmeal and tobacco scent that lingered through the house. He missed Aberforth’s mild manner and the flavorless, watery stews that he’d make at least once a week.

Most of all, he missed the feeling of a place he could call _home._ And a person he could call _family._ But of course, thinking of family brought up all sorts of memories, including some very recent, very traumatizing ones that he preferred to keep well away from, so didn’t linger.

So he pushed it all away and it was fine. Snape shot him long, searching looks in the hallway but didn’t confront him about therapy or talking about his feelings or any of that garbage. McGonagall was so pitying it made him sick. Madame Pomfrey was as good as ever; she left him to it and didn’t bother him unless he came to her. Dumbledore, after his initial talk, didn’t care one whit—typical.

He thought about owling Aberforth and telling him what happened, but whenever he tried to put quill to parchment he’d see the garden, fresh buds and sprouts all green and bright in the sun, and something inside him would just feel sick. He couldn’t ruin that beauty.

It was all very confusing inside Harry’s head, really, but at least Draco didn’t give a shit.

They found ways to hang out with each other. They’d drop notes into each other’s laps if they passed each other with scrawled sentences like “ _unused classroom, third floor, after dinner_.” Most of the time, they didn’t talk about the important things, just gossiped about their classmates and made fun of the way Harry’s voice was starting to crack and compared homework answers.

Sometimes, though, the deeper things would slip through the cracks.

Harry would try to skip off early and Draco would yell at him, accuse him of isolating himself and abandoning his friends. Harry, who realized guiltily he wasn’t spending much time with any of his other friends, would apologize and stay even later than normal. 

Somedays he couldn’t talk. Somedays he could talk but really, really didn’t want to. And those days were fine, too, because Draco would just talk for the both of them.

But then Draco had his bad days, and those were so much worse because Harry didn’t know how to help him when he collapsed in on himself. Draco was all daggers and deflection, swords and shadows. He didn’t cry like Harry; he just raged. He scared Harry a little bit sometimes; even after the worst nights he’d come back cheery and pleasant, as if nothing had happened. Like a ghost or a different person. Like the sad, scared, broken version of Draco had never been there at all.

Draco came in one night with shaking shoulders and trembling fingers. His eyes were bloodshot and bruised, his cheeks blanched.

"Are you okay?"

Draco shook his head frantically. "I can't breathe anymore," he said. "It's all here, so close I can feel it on my skin. The Dark Lord, my parents, even Crabbe and Goyle and all the stupid would-be Death Eaters in Slytherin. It's crowding me and I feel so tense, so awful, all the fucking time. And I can't even bloody well go home about it, because an evil face is living there!"

Harry didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," he settled on. "I can't imagine... I can't imagine how hard that must be. You're putting up with so much."

"I wish the Dark Lord would just come back to life and get his ridiculous plans over with. Kill the muggles, the muggleborns, the freaks. Set up his new world, whatever. Then it's done."

"You don't mean that," Harry said quietly. "You don't mean that."

“Then _you_ fucking think of something! You're the bloody Boy Who Lived; you figure out what to do!”

Harry recoiled. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, voice quivering.

“Of course I’m fucking mad,” Draco snarled. “My entire life is doing every single thing an evil fucking bastard tells me to do, and if I don’t then my family is tortured and we all probably _die_ and all you do is criticize every single thing I say! I can’t fucking do this anymore, Potter, not with you around with your morals and your arrogance and your stupid stupid wishful thinking. I'm fucking done.”

And then, before Harry could cry or yell or apologize or do anything at all, the door was slamming and Draco was gone, gone, gone.

↠

Cedric ran into Harry in the halls after Defense and told him to take a bath, which Harry thought was a little rude.

“It’s for the egg. I can’t tell you everything, but just… listen to it, okay? It’ll make sense.”

He gave Harry the password for the prefect’s bathroom, clapped his shoulder, and then disappeared into the throng of students passing by.

It _was_ a nice bathroom, and Harry found himself falling into the near-boiling water with a shiver and a sigh. His body felt loose and light, like it was melting away below him.

He sat until the bubbles were nearly gone and his fingers were icky and pruned, and then he plunged the egg into the water.

The riddle, or poem, or whatever, was stupid. He figured the voice was from a mermaid or something and, after a query to Hermione and Luna, deduced that there were indeed merpeople in the Black Lake.

Two days later, Draco dropped a note in Harry’s lap during defense.

“ _I’m sorry._ ”

They didn’t talk about it again, letting Draco’s anger and words and pain fall away, pretending for just a little longer that none of it existed. Harry wasn’t really sure how to feel about it anyway. He knew Draco hadn't meant what he said, and he knewDraco didn’t want his pity. So Harry ignored it.

Instead, the next time they met they talked about the second task.

“I only know how to swim a little bit,” he told Draco one night. “How am I supposed to breathe underwater for an hour?”

“Just nick some gillyweed,” Draco said, smirking.

So they did.

↠

Luna’s hair floated in a tangled mess around her face. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed and peaceful. Next to her were three others—Hermione, Benjamin Hughes, and a young blonde girl that must’ve been Fleur’s sister. The mermen swirled around the dais the others were tied to, leering at Harry as he swam nearer.

Was Luna what Harry cared for most? How did they choose? How could anyone choose just one person to love more than the rest?

She looked calm, at peace, and Harry wished he could be her. Asleep, unaware of the looming threat of death, dreaming of something happy and beautiful. If only. The water was cool on his skin but all of a sudden, he was too hot, aching inside his body. The thought of his aunt and uncle’s bodies loomed in his mind and he shoved them away. Focus, focus. He was focused.

He swam forward and reached for Luna. Before he could touch her, though, a merperson swam in front of him and pushed him backwards. Harry tried to move forward again, arms raised in defense, but they wouldn’t let him. They raised their trident and hissed. Leery, he retreated, trying to look as non-aggressive as possible.

“You cannot take from us,” the merperson said. Their voice was deep and warbling, a song even as they did not sing.

“Why?” Harry tried to ask, but all that came out was a flood of bubbles. They must have understood though, because they smiled cruelly.

“Would you let us take from you? What right do you have over these people? What rights do you have in this lake?”

None, Harry realized. He didn’t own Luna. So she was his favorite person—according to a stupid egg. What right did that give him over her body, her personhood? Harry wondered if the mermen had agreed to this task or if they’d been forced into it. Probably a little of both—Dumbledore was very good at convincing people of things he wanted from them.

He wanted to apologize but knew they wouldn’t be able to hear him. He pulled further backwards and tried to express, without words, how sorry he was that they were involved. That their home was invaded by stupid teenagers who didn’t know what they were doing, that they had to give up their space and time to accommodate a stupid game. That he hadn’t meant any harm. Then, he turned and swam away.

“Wait!” The merperson gripped his ankle; gasping, he kicked against their grasp. “I understand you now.”

Harry opened his eyes wide and shrugged his shoulders in a universal, “ _what?_ ”

“You do not want this any more than we do,” they said. Harry shook his head furiously and jabbed a finger upwards. It was the adults, the gamerunners that wanted this. Not him. He just wanted out.

“They demanded we do this, you know. The long-bearded man said it was our responsibility as members of this land. But when do our voices count in other decisions? When do they ask for our counsel?”

Harry just shrugged again and tried to look sorry. “ _I’m not like them,_ ” he wanted to say.

“You may have your friend, Mr. Potter. She was kind to us, also,” the merperson said, and darted towards Luna. Deftly, they swung their trident and sliced the tether holding Luna to the dais. She started floating towards the surface.

Harry gestured at the others. “They are not yours,” the merperson said. “Nor are they anyone else’s but their own, but you cannot carry them all. You are not _theirs,_ either; you are not their hero, and they are not your burden to carry.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to argue that. Sending one last searching look towards the merperson, he gave a small wave and then kicked upwards towards Luna’s body.

As he grabbed her waist to propel them both to the top, he saw Fleur appear at the dais. She didn’t even hesitate before pulling out her wand and shooting sparks towards the merpeople. They shrieked and hissed and swam towards her, tridents pointed tip-first towards her.

Shuddering, Harry swam away as fast as he could. _They are not your burden to carry._ He couldn’t prevent the guilt from washing over him, though.

↠

Severus watched Harry pull himself out of the lake with his hands coiled into fists. He knew that Harry and Draco had stolen gillyweed from his stores a few days prior but couldn’t find it within himself to be angry. Had they told him, he’d have given them as much gillyweed as Harry needed—plus any additional hints or clues that seemed relevant.

No, he wasn’t angry about the theft—but he _was_ angry at the sheer vacancy of Harry’s expression. He’d been underwater for nearly an hour, disappeared to save his friends in front of hundreds of spectators, faced threats and fears and challenges, done what few children his age could do, and yet… there was nothing there. His eyes were dim, barely flickering as his conquest, Ms. Lovegood, slowly roused herself to consciousness. Not even as she hugged him and walked with him towards the crowd of cheering friends did he react.

It was infuriating, and Severus was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Nearly a month had passed since the boy had started taking testosterone, and Severus had already noted several changes—his voice was cracking, and he was sprouting the acne typical of the other adolescent boys around him. The potion enhanced the changes of typical Muggle hormone treatments and so, within a year or so, Harry would, for all intents and purposes, pass as a boy. Not that he didn’t already—the Dark Lord’s influence on his magic still prevented most people from thinking of his identity without serious intent—but still, Severus knew it would be a relief for the boy.

It certainly had been for Regulus. Small, short, fair Regulus with his long hair and gentle features. He’d fought against his wish to pass, ranted about the ridiculousness of conforming to societal expectations that didn’t even belong to him, but still he’d been relieved when passersby stopped glancing at him up and down as if to confirm what he was.

But regardless—and here Severus shook himself from his thoughts—hormones did not typically cause an absolute vacancy of emotions.

Trauma, on the other hand, was known to cause such things.

Severus rebuked himself. He hadn’t done enough to monitor Harry after his aunt and uncle had been found—he’d been swept up in the investigative side of things. Albus had agreed with the Malfoy child’s notion that Lucius was responsible and had traced his magical signature through the castle to the Gryffindor common room. Severus was still convinced that Lucius was acting under pressure from the Dark Lord and not out of his own wishes; Albus didn’t disagree but didn’t seem that interested in reaching out to Lucius for testimony or further questions of any sort.

Nor did he reach out to Barty Crouch, whom the both of them acknowledged was acting rather suspicious. They couldn’t confirm whether or not Lucius Malfoy had met with him that night, but Hagrid had seen Crouch sneaking into the Forbidden Forest on several occasions. Snape also couldn’t shake Harry’s quiet admission he’d made a few days after Christmas Eve. “He makes my scar hurt,” the boy had said, hands curled around a tea mug in Snape’s office. He’d snuck down after dinner, claiming refuge from the returned boisterousness of Gryffindor house, and perched himself in his oft-claimed armchair. “I don’t know why, but something’s off about him. He feels… creepy.”

All that to say that, instead of keeping a close eye on the boy, enforcing check-ins with Poppy, and potentially calling in a mind healer or therapist, Severus had let it slide, taking Harry’s word for it that he was fine, had never been close to his relatives, and didn’t feel any guilt or sorrow at their loss.

Of _course_ the boy had lied. Who could be fine after such a thing?

Severus watched Harry accept a thick towel and curl into the warmth. Even his movements seemed stiff, unnatural. Something needed to be done, and Severus was going to bloody do it.

Despite finishing first, Harry placed last for this task. Apparently, he’d refused to fight with the merpeople who’d been guarding the captives, only taking the Lovegood girl after a merperson had cut her free themself. Severus didn’t blame that on apathy—that was just Harry, pure and simple.

He was proud.

↠

Remus had allowed Sirius out for this task, knowing that his frantic energy if he _couldn’t_ watch what was happening would only be worse. Not that they could see much from the stands, anyway, but Snuffles was at least good company. All of the students wanted to meet him and rub his head, which overjoyed Snuffles. Remus could only roll his eyes in exasperation and let him do what he wanted.

After the scores had been announced, Snuffles gamboled over to Harry and Remus reluctantly jogged along behind him. He was proud of Harry, naturally, but mainly he was cold and wanted a smoke and a whole pot of coffee. Watching an unmoving lake for an hour wasn’t exactly thrilling television.

“Good job, Harry,” he murmured, clapping Harry on the back. The boy flinched a bit and smiled dully up at Remus. Snuffles whined and pulled on Harry’s sleeve, which made his smile flash a bit more genuinely.

“It’s good to see Snuffles,” the boy said quietly. “Thanks for coming. Both of you.”

If his tone was emptier than normal, Remus coughed it up to stress and exhaustion. He’d just swam an hour, after all.

“Is Luna alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry responded, still focused on patting Snuffles’ head. “She really liked the merpeople. She had a great time. Probably would’ve stayed down there longer if she could’ve.”

Snuffles snorted and shoved his nose into Harry’s hand. Remus smiled.

“Listen, come down for dinner sometime soon. As you can see, Snuffles has missed you quite a bit.”

Harry smiled again, still weak and wan but a smile, nonetheless. “Thanks, Professor,” he said, and then turned to greet an oncoming group of ecstatic Weasleys.

↠

Draco’s gillyweed had made all the difference, and he didn’t hesitate to rub it in afterwards. He was the only one Harry told the full story of the lake to, in an abandoned classroom a few days later.

“I wasn’t really scared,” Harry had admitted, “but I just felt _miserable._ I don’t know, helpless or something. Like, everyone was just expecting me to be this big hero or champion or whatever and I didn’t fucking want to. I was so tired.”

Draco had responded with his usual sensitivity, telling him that naps were for beds and not lakes full of merpeople and giant squids, but Harry hadn’t minded.

“That merperson I talked to—the one that gave Luna to me? I understood them. They were so sad and upset. Their whole life was rigged; they’re stuck in that lake with nowhere to go, forced to do whatever Dumbledore asks of them.”

“You really feel that trapped?” Draco had asked skeptically.

“Yeah,” Harry’d said. “Don’t you?”

Stupid question; of course he did. They were both trapped, just on different sides of the same stupid war or whatever.

“I think my dad’s getting desperate,” Draco admitted, and Harry squeezed his hand tighter. “His letters are, I dunno, frantic. Like he’s running out of options. He’s trapped, too. And mother, of course.”

“Dumbledore could help them,” Harry said, bitter at the contradiction between that offer and his own upset towards the man.

“But at what cost? They’re tired of being loyal to the wrong sort. Of being loyal to anything at all. Is that so wrong?”

Harry thought about it. “I don’t think so,” he said after a while. “It makes sense. I’m not loyal to much either. I just want to be safe, and warm, and happy, and have bad things stop happening. Right now, I feel like… like I’m sick, always. Like everything is distant, and cold, and empty, and something in me is wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Harry.”

“I know that,” Harry said dismissively.

“Do you?”

The words were harsh and soft all at once, quiet as if Draco hadn’t even meant to say them out loud. Draco was staring at him, eyes searching, and Harry found he couldn’t meet them properly. Instead, he focused on the lines of his mouth, the quirk of his lips.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, “I know. Sometimes it’s just hard to remember.”

Draco didn’t say anything to that, just stared. Harry brushed his gaze away. “But anyway, you should tell your parents what you’re feeling. Secretly, or something, so that You-Know-Who doesn’t find out.”

“But what if I’m wrong, and they betray me to him?” Draco’s voice quavered.

“Well, then you know they don’t love you. Isn’t that an answer all on its own?”

“No,” Draco said, “Because I’d still love them.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He’d never had parents to love unconditionally or to be loved unconditionally by. Draco’s love was too consuming, too all-encapsulating and full for Harry to understand.

“I can’t wait for this to be over,” Harry said finally.

“Which bit? The tournament?”

“The tournament, yeah, but just… everything. Not like, not like dying or anything, it just. I thought… I thought my life would be something different. I want something better. But nothing’s gonna change until that bastard is dead for real.”

“Then we kill him,” Draco said flatly.

“I don’t want to be a murderer,” Harry said. _Not again,_ he thought. He had enough dead bodies to dream of already.

“Then we’re fucked.”

And Harry didn’t say anything, because it was true.


	10. Chapter 10

One night, Harry dreamt of summer.

It was a storm. The lightning fell over the sky like a blanket, pink streaks of lightning buffeting the dark clouds.

It wasn’t a happy dream by any measure, but it was peaceful. Harry couldn’t even find himself or feel his body; there was just the garden, weeds and flowers alike tumbling in the wind, clouds thick and humid, looming over his consciousness. There was nothing to think about except the impending rain, soon to fall on the dry soil below the sky.

And then the rain came, and with it the memories. Assaulting the ground with vigor, with relish, the rain pummeled the garden and tore trees limb from limb. A branch fell to the ground and became Aunt Petunia’s twisted hand, the wrist snapped as easily as a twig. Through the thunder, he could hear what he knew were her last screams. Harry’s body was nowhere to be found inside the dream, but even so he felt like a bruise, blood-under-skin pain radiating everywhere. The guilt tore through him, gnawed down to his bones. 

When Harry woke, he was tangled up inside his sheets, which were wound taught around his arms and legs. He was damp with sweat and felt like he was choking. He had the desperate sensation of wanting to go back to sleep but not being able to; the storm had migrated to his mind, and everything felt electric, cracks of lightning keeping his mind abuzz. Harry forced himself to breathe. 

Outside the window, a thick blanket of snow covered the ground, making the grounds bright and shiny even in the middle of the night. It was a stark contrast to the stifling heat he felt in his bed, and Harry was desperate to escape. Abandoning all thoughts of sleep or rest, Harry slipped out of bed, pulled on his cloak and shoes, and nabbed his broom. 

The moon hung restlessly over the grounds. Harry didn’t even bother walking to the Quidditch pitch; as soon as he escaped the castle, he was in the air. It was colder than he thought, and the fever dream of summer felt distant in his bones. The chill on his skin was sharp and piercing, simultaneously waking and numbing him. The wind wrapped around him and he felt everything and nothing. It was a relief to let the sky take away all his pain and panic. 

He climbed higher, pulling away from the castle and over the forest. The wind caught his cloak and it fluttered behind him, blending in with the whistle of air in his ears. What would it be like, he wondered, to disappear into the woods? Who would look for him? Would they find anything?

He imagined them finding his body. Maybe by the time they found him, if he hid well enough, there would just be bones left, and they wouldn’t be able to identify him. Not without the scar on his forehead. 

The grief overtook him, then. Before, it had been a shadow, but now it rioted and tore through him. Not violently, but like gravity—an inevitability. 

Harry dipped and tilted his broom to look behind him. Hogwarts was further in the distance than he’d ever flown before. The individual lights coming from the windows blurred into one flickering candle, and the warm, yellow light looked so soft and inviting, as if the castle was just waiting for him to come back, ready to welcome him with open arms. 

What was he doing? Why was he even out here, flying through the night? Harry could hardly remember how he'd gotten there; he'd woken up with panic and misery and pain looming on the edge of his mind and dove headfirst into the first respite he'd thought of, but now he had no idea what to do. He wanted to go back, but he didn't want to face the world that was still waiting for him: a world without a real home, a real family, a real hope of the future. He had nothing.

Breathing fast and fighting back tears, Harry made a fast descent into the treetops and down to the snow-covered ground of the forest. He was flying too fast and half-crashed, half-landed, stumbling to catch himself and throwing up his palms to avoid a full-face collision into a tree trunk. Falling to his knees, he tried to catch his breath. 

His mind was ablaze. The panic, rage, sorrow, grief, unending agony of life swirled together and he couldn’t separate any of it. He could hear something that sounded vaguely like Snape telling him to calm down, but the voice was too distant to be real. Just a memory, then. 

Something was poking uncomfortably into his stomach. Searching through his pockets, Harry found the knife Sirius had given him the year before. His dad’s knife. 

He pulled it from its sheath. In the moonlight, it glinted like the snow beneath it. He stared at the cold metal, weighing it like a choice in the palm of his hand. 

He remembered a dream, then. From months and months ago: Voldemort, standing in a forest. Handing him this very knife.

A crack of light illuminated a spot several paces away. Looking up, Harry saw something skirt its way through the undergrowth. A flash of a rat’s tail disappeared under a branch. His heart raced. Another flash of a dream—a rat in a forest, just like now. It was all coming together to form… well, he had no clue. But it was all _real._ Not just dreams, but glimpses of the future. 

“Well?” Harry cried out, standing tall. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

He held the knife tight in his hand, fingers curled around the handle. There was more skittering from the brush, but nothing came forward. Then, a flash of noise; with his hands up, Peter Pettigrew stepped out from behind the trees.

↠

A distressed Minerva McGonagall appeared in Severus’s fireplace well after midnight. His eyes had gone foggy from grading first years’ essays and he was near ready to call it quits and retire; if he had to see one more spelling of ‘bee-sore’ or ‘Eye of Noot,’ he was certain he’d lose his mind. 

“Have you seen Potter?” Minerva asked. He noted she was wearing a bonnet and looked extremely disheveled. Her night off hall patrol, then. 

“I would assume he’d be with the rest of your Gryffindors,” Severus said, eyebrow arched. 

“Well, he’s not. Ron Weasley came to me in a panic just now, said he woke up and Harry was gone.”

Severus sighed. “Well I don’t bloody know, do I? Have you checked with the wolf?”

Minerva clucked her tongue. “He asked me if I’d talked to you.”

Groaning, and ignoring the way his heart was pounding furiously, Severus summoned his cloak. It was likely he was visiting one of his old haunts—maybe wherever he and the Lovegood girl had gotten off to in the forest all of last year. 

“I’ll look for him,” he said. 

“Thank you, Severus. I’ll inform the headmaster.”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Even so…”

“I’ll message you when I find him,” Severus said, leaving the _or if I can’t_ unsaid. “It will be fine. There’s no need to notify the headmaster of this.” 

Minerva looked doubtful, but gave up. Nodding shortly, she vanished from his fireplace.

Sweeping from his rooms, Severus tried to find the right balance between outright sprinting and maintaining his composure as a nonchalant, non-caring, irritable professor. 

“ _Appare vestigium,_ ” he cast under his breath. The tracking spell led him out onto the grounds and pointed further out towards the forest. Cursing the boy and whatever possessed him to leave the comfortable warmth of the obnoxiously red Gryffindor tower, Severus cast every warming charm he knew and pulled his weary body towards the trees. “Harry, where are you?”

↠

Harry had no clue how far away from the castle, but he knew he was well beyond help. Even if he shot up sparks, he doubted anyone would be looking. 

“What do you want?” he spat, fighting for the courage and rage he’d felt when he thought Sirius had killed his parents. "Why are you here? _How_ are you here?"

“Harry,” Pettigrew stuttered. “Harry, sweet boy. Sweet child. I mean you no harm.”

Harry scoffed. Fat chance. He thought of Sirius and Remus and how sad they were, how bereaved they had been when they’d talked of Peter. 

“You betrayed my parents,” he hissed. “What you _mean_ doesn’t mean shit.”

“You shouldn’t be away from Hogwarts,” Pettigrew whispered softly. “All sorts of harm could come your way.” 

Harry didn’t need a rat to tell him that; he was wildly aware just how much danger he was in—and how much trouble he’d be in when he got back to the castle. _If_ he got back to the castle.

“What do you want,” he said again. He had the knife raised in one hand, his wand in the other. 

“I’ve been sent. I'm meant to test you,” Pettigrew said nervously. 

“What?” Harry asked, but before he could finish the question, Pettigrew lunged.

↠

Severus should have let Minerva tell Dumbledore. He realized that now, nearly an hour into the forest. The tracking spell was still working, though, and almost done. His wand was getting warmer in his hand, the magic pulling him towards his destination. He cursed the boy and promised him a term’s worth of detentions. 

And then he saw him. 

“Harry,” he gasped. 

The boy was sat against a tree, head leaning back against the bark. Eyes shut. Blood ran down his forehead, trickling from his inflamed scar. 

Tentatively, Severus pressed his fingers to Harry’s neck, searching for a pulse. He found it, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was steady and strong. 

Before Severus could take his hand away, Harry’s eyes flashed open. 

“Severus,” the boy said. Something about his voice was markedly wrong—icy and all-too-pleased. 

Severus aimed his wand right between the boy’s eyes. 

“Now, now,” Harry tutted. “Is that any way to say hello to an old friend?”

“My Lord,” Severus said slowly. “Do you care to explain your current state?”

“Whatever you do you mean, Severus?”

“I was under the impression you had left the boy’s mind some time ago,” he said lightly, trying to keep his voice steady. Harry’s eyes were too blank for his comfort. “Why have you chosen now to return?”

“You know, Severus, it was not so much a choice as it was an inevitability. I have quite missed Harry.”

Severus withheld a snarl. “Is he still… present?”

“Not for the time being. The last time we visited, you see, I took the liberty of installing some failsafes.”

“Protective measures, yes? I gathered as much from his responses to any bodily threat.”

“Very good, Severus. I wondered if you had noticed.” 

Severus noticed the knife, then. Harry was balancing it between his hands, examining the way the moonlight bounced off it. Blood streaked the blade. 

“Yes,” Harry continued. “I noticed how poorly dear Harry responded to his lovely relatives. He barely put up a fight. No sense of self-preservation at all. Well, we couldn’t have that, could we? I need the boy safe and alive, Severus. So I thought it best to keep him safe on his behalf. Make him fight for his life, regardless of the situation. Dear Harry here will do everything he can to protect himself when provoked—even if it means killing them.”

“Who did he kill?” Severus asked. He was proud of himself—there was barely a tremor in his voice.

“See for yourself,” Harry said, gesturing towards the brush a little ways away. 

Without turning his back on the boy, Severus headed toward the brush. When he saw the body, he sighed. 

“I can’t say I’m sorry,” he said. He'd often dreamt of killing Pettigrew himself.

“No,” Harry said. “Nor can I. Truly, I grew tired of his nerves. This seemed to be the fitting end for him.”

“What happens now?” Severus asked, stalking around the space. He was nervous, he was unsettled, he was tired. He wanted nothing more than to knock the boy out, cart him back to the castle, and lock him up in the dungeons so nothing bad would happen to him ever again. 

“Now,” Harry said, smiling faintly, “I give Harry back to himself. You really ought to keep a better eye on him, Severus. He’s having quite a few dangerous thoughts these days.”

“I wonder why,” Severus muttered.

“I’ll count on you to take care of him. This was a test, and I’m glad to see that everything worked as expected. He’s protected from himself, too, you see—any self harm will bring me straight up to the surface again. But I will be… most displeased should the boy be put in unnecessary danger.”

“I would be too, my lord,” Severus said. His teeth ached from how tightly he’d been grinding them the past few minutes.

“I appreciate the pretense, Severus. You’re not quite as disposable as dear Peter was, but I can’t pretend I’m not aware of your variable loyalties. Bear that in mind as you consider why you’re still alive.”

Severus thought the wiser choice was to keep his mouth shut, and did so. He waited, staring at the boy. 

“Good man,” Harry said, smiling. His eyes were still blank, unseeing. 

“Should I expect regular conversations with you, my lord?”

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t think so. Not so long as Harry remains safe.”

“Can that be expected during the third task?” The question came out before he could restrain himself. 

“Oh, we’ll see. Who can say what will come in these next few months. The future is always a mystery, isn’t it.”

Severus didn’t reply. 

“Well,” Harry said, his tone still amused. “I’ll leave you to it, then. The boy should have a few hours of rest before he wakes, I believe. Plenty of time for you to… clean up the evidence.” 

The boy’s mouth went slack, then, and his eyes rolled backwards, lids dropping shut as Voldemort left his consciousness. 

Severus bent to check the boy’s pulse once more and, satisfied, wearily returned to Pettigrew’s body. Harry had done a number on him—there was more blood than Severus ordinarily liked to think about. Grimacing, he vanished the blood and transformed the body into a rat. 

“I can’t say I’m sorry,” he told the rat once more, and cast _Incendio._ When he was done, nothing remained but the bones.


End file.
